Home 


EUGENE  WOOD 


FOLKS   BACK    HOME 


FOLKS    BACK   HOME 


BY 

EUGENE    WOOD 

Author  of  Back  Home 


NEW    YORK 

THE    McCLURE    COMPANY 
MCMVIII 


Copyright,  ipoS,  by  The  McClure  Company 
Published,  February,    1908 


Copyright,  1899,  1900,  1901,  1903,  1906,  by  Ainslee's  Magazine 
Copyright,  1903,  by  The  Frank  A.  Munsey  Company 

Copyright,  1905,  by  Harper  &  Brothers 
Copyright,  1906,  by  Broadway  Magazine,  Inc. 


To  my  most  critical  appreciator 
To  my  most  doubting  admirer 

The  most  thoroughgoing 

Sentimentalist  and  Realist 

To  the  one  who  has  lost  all  illusions 

save  that  I  am  the  greatest  of  all 

Living    Writers 

in  short 

Co  m?  Witt 

This  book  is  dedicated 


Ml 04381 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE  SEAL  OF  THE  COVENANT 3 

THE  LOST  DAY 37 

AN  INDIAN  SUMMER  LOVE  STORY        .       .       .       .     52 

THE  SEVENTH  TRUMPET 76 

M'REE  HUTCHINS'  HUSBAND 102 

THE  WARNING 129 

THE  ELOPEMENT 152 

THE  FICTIONAL  MIND 184 

THE  MAKIN'S  OF  ABEL  HORN 198 

THE  LOVE  STORY  OF  ROBERT  PROUTY       .       .       .225 

THE  DAYS  OF  His  SEPARATION 249 

THAT  ABOUT  LAURA  HORNBAKER        .       .       .       .276 
STARS  IN  His  CROWN 311 


FOLKS   BACK   HOME 


THE    SEAL   OF    THE    COVENANT 

I 

FOR  a  minute  or  two  Mrs.  Smith  felt  provoked 
that  Mr.  Burns  should  have  called  just  when 
he  did.  She  wasn't  much  of  a  hand  to  read; 
she  couldn't  seem  to  get  her  mind  on  it,  she  said, 
but  she  liked  to  have  Clara  read  aloud,  and  they  had 
got  to  the  place  where  it  looked  as  if  She  wasn't 
going  to  get  Him  after  all.  When  Clara  went  into 
the  parlor,  Mrs.  Smith  laid  down  her  Battenberg  and 
read  a  few  pages  herself,  but  it  kept  looking  more 
and  more  as  if  He  would  never  see  that  She  was 
just  tantalizing  Him  and  leading  Him  on.  The  next 
chapter  began  with :  "  But  let  us  return  to  our  young 
friends,  Harry  and  George."  Mrs.  Smith  did  not  care 
two  pins  about  Harry  and  George.  She  hesitated  a 
moment  and  then  boldly  turned  over  to  the  last  chap 
ter.  Well,  She  got  Him.  It  was  quite  a  load  off  Mrs. 
Smith's  mind,  but  she  felt  like  a  child  that  has 
peeped  on  Christmas  eve.  Her  fun  was  spoiled  now. 
Clara  would  want  to  finish  the  book  and  would  no 
tice  that  she  wasn't  interested.  She  would  ask  ques- 

3 


4  FOLKS    BACK    HOME 

tions.  Clara  despised  to  have  people  turn  over  to 
the  last  chapter. 

Mrs.  Smith  began  to  think  up  things  to  say,  and 
she  had  hardly  got  a  good  start  when  she  heard  the 
parlor  door  open  and  Mr.  Burns  come  out  into  the 
hall.  What,  already?  She  heard  him  take  his  things 
from  the  hat-rack  and  put  them  on,  helped  by  Clara. 
Both  were  very  still.  Usually  they  clattered  away  at 
a  great  rate,  but  to-night  .  .  .  She  wondered  what 
was  up.  She  heard  him  ask  something  in  a  pleading 
voice.  In  the  silence  that  followed  Mrs.  Smith  clair- 
voyantly  saw  Clara  shake  her  head.  He  sighed  and 
said,  "  Good  night,"  in  a  subdued  and  humble  voice. 
Clara's  "Good  night"  also  betokened  emotion.  Then 
came  the  departing  footsteps  on  the  brick  walk  and 
the  door  shut. 

Mrs.  Smith  wanted  to  jump  right  up  and  run  to 
her  daughter  to  ask  all  about  it.  But  something  kept 
her  at  her  Battenberg.  It  seemed  to  take  Clara  a  very 
long  time  to  fix  the  parlor  fire  for  the  night  and  to 
straighten  the  room  into  its  habitual  decorum.  When 
she  came  out  and  took  a  chair  in  the  sitting  room 
she  seemed  to  have  no  more  desire  than  her  mother 
to  resume  the  interrupted  reading. 

After  waiting  a  reasonable  time  for  Clara  to 
speak,  Mrs.  Smith  gave  her  Battenberg  a  turn  on 
her  lap  and  began:  "  Mr.  Burns  didn't  make  a  long 
stay  to-night." 


THE    SEAL    OF    THE    COVENANT        5 

Clara  held  her  peace. 

With  something  like  a  sigh  for  glories  now  for 
ever  past,  Mrs.  Smith  complained:  "  Young  folks 
nowadays  ain't  what  they  was.  In  my  time  they 
didn't  use  to  think  nothin'  at  all  o'  settin'  up  till 
two  three  o'clock  in  the  mornin'  when  they  was 
sparkin'  a  girl,  but  now  they  ain't  more'n  good  and 
got  their  hats  off  before  it's,  'Well,  I'll  be  goin' 
along.'  It's  no  wonder  they  don't  nobody  get  mar 
ried  any  more  hardly." 

If  this  was  intended  to  draw  Clara  out  it  failed 
of  its  purpose,  but  it  did  draw  Mrs.  Smith  out. 

"  I  mind  one  time  when  John  Van  Meter  was 
courtin'  me — that  was  before  your  pa's  folks  moved 
here  from  Clark  County — John  set  up  with  me  till 
plumb  four  o'clock  Monday  mornin'.  Pap,  he  was 
always  up  and  about  at  four,  winter  and  summer. 
He'd  set  and  read  till  it  was  light  enough  to  see  to 
do  the  chores.  He  come  in  and  ast  John  if  he 
wouldn't  stay  for  breakfast.  Well,  sir,  I  thought 
John  would  sink  through  the  floor.  .  .  .  He  quit 
comin'  after  that.  .  .  .  Pap  says,  '  Won't  you  stay 
fer  breakfast,  Mr.  Van  Meter? '  and  John,  he 
reached  fer  his  hat  arid  lit  out,  and  not  a  word  out 
o'  him.  I  never  seen  him  ag'in,  except  at  meetin' 
and  such  places.  ...  He  was  the  poorest  hand  to 
carry  on  a  conversation,  John  was.  Two  three  times 
I  prett'  near  went  to  sleep.  I  had  a  big  wash  to  do 


6  FOLKS    BACK    HOME 

that  day,  and  not  gittin'  my  rest  jist  about  finished 
me.  I  went  to  bed  right  after  I  hung  the  clothes  out 
and  never  waked  up  till  time  to  set  the  table  for  sup 
per.  I  always  knowed  after  that  how  it  was  with  that 
young  couple  over  to  Rum  Creek.  I  told  you  about 
them,  didn't  I,  Clara?" 

Clara  roused  herself  to  ask:  ''What  young  cou 
ple?  "  Not  that  she  was  much  interested  though. 

"  W'y,  he  was  settin'  up  with  her  in  front  of  a 
open  fireplace,  and  I  guess  he  must  'a'  ben  another 
John  Van  Meter,  fer  they  both  went  to  sleep  and 
fell  over  into  the  fire  and  was  burned  so  bad  before 
they  was  got  out  that  the  both  of  'em  died.  She  was 
burned  worse'n  he  was.  'Course  it's  turrable  to  think 
o'  folks  burnin'  up  alive.  That's  one  thing  I  got 
ag'inst  the  Catholics.  But,  still,  it's  kind  o'  comi 
cal,  too,  one  way  you  look  at  it.  I  tell  you  what, 
they  wasn't  no  noddin'  and  gapin'  when  your  pa  was 
around.  He  was  a  great  cut-up.  .  .  .  John  Van  Me 
ter  was  lots  older'n  me,  anyways." 

Mrs.  Smith  worked  on  in  silence  a  little  longer 
and  attacked  the  subject  again:  "You  didn't  say 
nothin'  to  Mr.  Burns  to  hurt  his  feelin's,  did  you? 
Because  I  know  how  you  are,  Clara.  Whatever  you 
think  you  blat  right  out.  The  men  don't  like  a  girl 
to  be  too  outspoken.  I  sometimes  think  that's  the 
reason  why  you  don't  get  a  man." 

Clara  stirred  impatiently. 


THE    SEAL    OF   THE    COVENANT        7 

"  I  don't  know  what's  got  into  the  young  men 
nowadays.  So  little  sense.  Now  see  'at  Elnora 
Rhinehart,  the  humbliest  bein'  I  think  the  Lord 
ever  made,  red  hair  and  sandy  complected,  and  as 
freckled  as  a  turkey  egg,  and  a  big  nose,  and  a 
mouth  look  like  a  whole  double-handful  o'  horse 
teeth  had  jist  ben  shoved  in  anyways,  and  look  how 
well  she  done!  And  here's  you  that's  a  reel  good- 
lookin'  girl,  I  won't  say  pirty,  but  nice-\ookiri,  and 
stylish-looking  and  can  make  all  her  own  things — 
Mrs.  Perkypile  wouldn't  believe,  the  other  day,  but 
what  your  winter  hat  was  trimmed  by  a  reg'lar  mil 
liner — and  you  can  play  on  the  instrument  some  and 
reel  well  educated " 

"  Oh,  pshaw,  mother!  " 

"  '  Aw,  pshaw  '  nothin'  !  You  are  so.  You  got  to 
be,  a  teacher  in  the  High  School  like  you  are.  And 
you  get  to  go  to  socials  and  all  like  that  where  the 
men  are,  and  I  don't  believe  one  of  'em  has  ever 
ast  you,  and  here  you  are,  twenty-eight,  goin'  on 
twenty-nine.  Your  pa  used  to  say,  '  Oh,  they'll  all  be 
after  her  when  she  grows  up,'  but,  my  land!  I  don't 
believe  you  give  'em  any  encouragement  whatso 
ever." 

"  Maybe  I  don't  want  to  get  married." 

"  W'y,  Clara  Smith!" 

'  That's  my  name,  mum,"  said  Clara,  with  a  little 
quirk  of  the  corners  of  her  mouth. 


8  FOLKS    BACK    HOME 

"  Yes,  and  it's  likely  to  be  your  name,  too." 

"  Well,  bein'  as  they's  so  many  nice  folks  has  got 
that  name,  I  dassent  say  nothin'  ag'in  it,"  said  Clara, 
with  exaggerated  dialect.  "  I  jist  as  soon  have  that 
name  as  Snigglefritz.  I  don't  know  but  sooner.  It 
seems  to  be  easier,  anyhow,  to  keep  what  I  have 
than  to  get  another." 

"  Tchk!  You're  jist  like  your  pa.  You  couldn't  get 
him  to  talk  seriously  about  anything." 

"  Well,  ma'am,  I'll  talk  seriously  with  you,  if 
that's  what  you  want.  Why  should  I  want  to  get 
married?  You  own  this  house,  and  I  s'pose  you'll 
let  me  live  with  you  as  long  as  I  behave  myself,  and 
when  you  die  (which  I  hope  you  won't  till  you  get 
good  and  ready)  I  s'pose  you'll  will  it  to  me,  seeing 
that  John's  got  his  share  and  is  doing  so  well  out 
in  Omaha.  There's  a  roof  over  me  all  my  days.  I've 
got  my  place  in  the  High  School,  and  I  guess  I  can 
keep  it  as  long  as  I  want  to.  They  don't  pay  as  much 
as  they  ought,  but  it's  sure  and  it's  enough  to  eat 
and  wear  for  you  and  me,  and  a  little  over.  It's  work 
that  I  like  to  do,  and  the  hours  are  from  nine  in 
the  morning  till  four  in  the  afternoon,  quarter  of  an 
hour  recess  morning  and  afternoon,  and  an  hour  and 
a  half  for  dinner.  Saturdays  and  Sundays,  the  Christ 
mas  and  Easter  holidays,  and  the  summer-time  I'm 
free. 

"  Well,  now.  If  I  got  married — that  is,  s'posin'  I 


THE    SEAL    OF    THE    COVENANT        9 

could,  mum — I  go  to  work  for  my  board  and  clothes 
and  maybe  not  that,  if  anything  happens  to  him. 
If  I  want  five  cents  I  can't  have  it  unless  he  is  a 
mind  to  give  it  to  me.  That's  nice!  I'd  like  that! 
There's  no  vacation,  and  the  hours  are  from  the 
time  you  get  up  in  the  morning  till  you  go  to  bed 
at  night  and  no  recess.  I  don't  mind  helping  you 
with  the  housework,  because  it's  a  change,  but  it's 
not  the  work  I  like,  and  to  be  tied  to  it  forever  and 
eternally — No,  ma'am,  thank  you.  Not  any  for  me." 

"  But  s'posin'  you  got  a  man  well  enough  off  so's 
'at  you  needn't  do  the  housework  yourself." 

"Yes,  and  what  should  I  be  to  such  a  man? 
Come,  mother,  look  me  in  the  eye  and  tell  me  what 
I  should  be?" 

Mrs.  Smith  reddened  and  did  not  look  her  daugh 
ter  in  the  eye. 

"  That's  no  way  to  talk,  Clara,"  she  reproved. 
"  It  isn't  ladylike  to  say  such  things." 

"What  things?" 

"  What  you  jist  now  said." 

"  I  didn't  say  anything.  Neither  did  you.  You 
were  afraid  to.  But  you  thought  it.  And  I  tell  you 
something  else.  The  woman  that  '  marries  for  a 
home,'  do  you  know  what  I  think  of  her?  I  think  she 
hasn't  any  cause  to  turn  up  her  nose  at  Gentle  Annie 
and  the  other  trollops  up  in  Stringtown." 

There  was  silence,  which  Clara  broke  by:  "And 


io  FOLKS    BACK    HOME 

why  should  you  be  so  anxious  for  me  to  get  mar 
ried?  What  would  become  of  you  if  I  did?  " 

"Oh,  I'd  get  along  all  right!"  This  was  said 
rather  faintly. 

"  Oh,  you'd  do  fine!  Suppose  he  didn't  want  a 
mother-in-law  about,  wouldn't  I  be  happy — wouldn't 
I  be  tickled  to  death  to  know  that  you  were  staying 
here  nights  all  alone?  Or  maybe  you  would  go  out 
to  Omaha  and  live  with  John  and  Inez." 

Mrs.  Smith  winced  at  both  suggestions. 

'*  You  know  you  and  Iny  couldn't  get  along  to 
gether  at  all.  It  was  as  much  as  you  could  do  to 
hold  in  when  she  and  John  were  here  on  a  visit  last 
fall,  and  what  would  you  do  if  you  had  to  live  in 
the  house  with  her?  Iny's  well-meaning,  but  laws-a- 
my!  it  beats  me  to  guess  what  John  could  ever  see 
in  her,  and  yet  he  thinks  she's  the  finest  woman  that 
ever  stepped.  He'd  take  her  part  against  you.  He'd 
have  to." 

"  Yes,"  sighed  Mrs.  Smith,  "  the  Scripture  says 
for  a  man  to  leave  father  and  mother  and  cleave  to 
his  wife.  We  dassent  go  agen  Scripture,  but  I  al 
ways  thought  it  was  a  kind  o'  hard  for  the  boy  that 
she's  tended  to  ever  since  he  was  born  to  take  and 
leave  her  for  some  woman  he's  only  knowed  a  little 
while,  especially  when  they're  slack  housekeepers, 
and  jist  let  them  two  little  children  go  lookin'  like 
distraction " 


THE    SEAL    OF    THE    COVENANT       n 

Mrs.  Smith  was  on  the  point  of  crying  when  Clara 
interrupted  with: 

"  Well,  there's  no  Scripture  commanding  old 
maids  to  leave  their  poor  lone  mother  to  take  up 
with  the  first  slick-head  that  comes  along/' 

"  Now,  Clara,  you  mustn't  consider  me,"  qua 
vered  Mrs.  Smith.  "  I  done  my  sheer.  I  bore  the  bur 
den  in  the  heat  o'  the  day  and  now  it's  your  turn 
and  I  ortn't  to  hender  you.  You've  ben  a  awful  good 
daughter  to  me,  and  you'll  make  some  man  a  good 
wife,A  and  it  ain't  right — it  ain't  natural  fer  you  to 
say  you  don't  want  to  git  married." 

"  Who  said  I  didn't  want  to  get  married?  " 

"  W'y,  you  jist  this  very  minute  said  how  much 
nicer  it  would  be  fer  you  to  go  on  teachin'  school 
than  to  git  married  and  have  to  do  housework." 

"  So  it  would,  but  that  isn't  it.  As  far  as  getting 
a  living  is  concerned,  I'd  be  a  fool  to  give  up  teach 
ing  at  good  wages  and  go  as  a  servant  for  no  wages 
at  all.  But  getting  a  living  isn't  all  there  is  to  life. 
It's  only  half  of  it.  If  I  were  a  sexless  being,  like 
the  worker  bees  I  was  telling  the  children  about  this 
afternoon,  I  shouldn't  think  twice  about  whether  I 
was  an  old  maid  or  not.  But  I'm  a  woman,  and  a 
woman  isn't  all  of  a  woman  unless  she's  a  mother!  " 

"  I  hope  you  didn't  say  that  before  Mr.  Burns!" 

"  No,  ma'am,  I  didn't.  I  was  going  to,  but  I 
thought  I'd  better  not." 


12  FOLKS    BACK    HOME 

"Clara  Smith!  You  didn't  think  of  saying  it.! " 

"Huh!  Do  you  reckon  I've  gone  plumb  crazy? 
Either  he'd  have  been  shocked  into  a  faint  or 
else —  They're  a  low-minded  lot,  the  best  of  'em. 
But,  mother,"  she  declared,  passionately,  "  I'm  hun 
gry  for  children  of  my  own.  When  I  go  into  Mrs. 
Power's  room  and  see  the  little  things  there  I  could 
just  eat  'em  up,  I  love  'em  so! " 

"W'y,  Clara!" 

"  Oh-o-o-oh !  "  she  laughed,  with  a  laugh  that  was 
half  a  moan,  "  I  know  it  isn't  respectable  to  talk 
about  having  children,  and  I  don't  know  why,  unless 
it  is  too  holy,  too  sacred  to  be  spoken  of;  but  you 
can't  reprove  me.  You're  worse  than  I  am.  You've 
had  'em.  Honest,  now,  ma,  don't  you  wish  you  had 
grandchildren  that  you  could  pet  and  spoil  and 
jaw  with  me  about  because  I  didn't  do  for  them 
right?" 

The  girl's  eyes  glittered  with  emotion  too  intense 
for  tears,  but  they  instantly  sprang  into  her  mother's 
eyes.  "  I  didn't  git  no  good  at  all  o'  John's  all 
the  time  he  was  here,"  she  whimpered.  "  Iny  jist 
watched  'em  like  a  hawk,  and  begrutched  me  every 
minute  I  was  with  'em.  And  it's  jist  tantalizin'  to 
me  to  see  their  pictures  and  know  'at  they're  so  fur 
away  from  me,  and  maybe  their  little  underclothes 
is  all  ragged.  When  you  get  married,  Clara,  you'll  let 
me  be  with  your  children,  won't  you?  " 


THE    SEAL    OF   THE    COVENANT      13 

"  Yes — when  I  get  married."  There  was  a  queer 
note  in  her  voice. 

Her  mother  hunted  for  a  handkerchief.  "  I  wish't 
you  could  get  a  man,  Clara,"  she  said,  humbly. 

"  Well,  maybe  I  could  if  I  was  to  try  right  hard," 
said  Clara,  dryly.  "  Let's  see,  now,  who'll  be  the 
lucky  fellow?  There's  Henry  Enright." 

"  Huh!  You  shan't  take  up  with  such  trash  as  him 
if  I've  got  anything  to  say  about  it." 

"  Well,  then,  there's  Charley  Pope." 

"  Charley'd  be  an  awful  nice  boy  if  he  didn't  drink 
so.  I  wouldn't  want  you  to  have  a  drinking  man." 

"  There's  Frank  Rodehaver." 

"  It  ain't  you  he  ought  to  be  marryin'." 

"  No,  from  what  I  hear.  Well,  there's  Charley  De 
Wees." 

"  Yes,  and  he's  a  lazy,  triflin'  hound  as  ever 
walked." 

"  I  suppose  you'd  object  to  Chet  Miller  because 
he  forged  his  father's  name,  and  Jim  Detwiler  be 
cause  he's  always  stealing  from  his  mother." 

"Ain't  it  a  pity!  And  the  Detwilers  so  nice, 
too." 

"  Well,  there's  Bert  Palmer.  He  doesn't  drink  or 
gamble  or  steal,  and  he  isn't  'onry.' ' 

"  No.  He  ain't  got  spunk  enough  to  do  anything. 
I  don't  believe  he's  reel  bright." 

"  Well,  ma'am,  that's  about  all  on  this  side  the 


i4  FOLKS    BACK    HOME 

tracks  that  ain't  bespoke.  On  the  other  side,  there's 
Miky  Ryan." 

"  The  Ryans  is  Catholics.  I  wouldn't  want  you  to 
marry  a  Catholic.  ...  I  don't  know  what's  the 
matter  with  the  young  men.  So  footy  and  no- 
account.  Stock's  kind  o'  runnin'  out,  I  guess." 

"  We've  only  the  leavings  in  this  town,  mother. 
All  the  boys  that  amount  to  anything  pick  up  and 
go  away." 

"  Like  Dick  Wambaugh.  You  used  to  think  a 
good  deal  o'  him,  didn't  you?  Full  of  ambition,  my! 
Your  pa  thought  a  heap  o'  him.  Where  is  he  now?  " 

"  Chicago.  Or  he  was,  last  I  heard." 

"  What  ever  made  you  quit  correspondin'  with 
him?  " 

"  Oh,  it  kind  o'  dropped  off.  He  owes  me  a  let 
ter  now,  let's  see — three  years  and  four  months." 

"  I  s'pose  he  seen  some  girl  up  in  Chicago  he 
liked." 

"  I  reckon  so." 

"  Be  nice  if  you  could  'a'  got  him.  W'y,  Clara!  " 
Mrs.  Smith  suddenly  recollected.  "  We  forgot  all 
about  pore  Mr.  Burns.  And  he  was  here  jist  this 
evening.  Wouldn't  he  do?  He's  educated  and  prin 
cipal  of  the  High  School.  He's  got  nice  connections. 
The  Burnses  is  well  thought  of  in  Mechanicsburg. 
He's  reel  nice  in  some  ways.  No  bad  habits  nor 
nothing." 


THE    SEAL    OF   THE    COVENANT      15 

"  No,"  said  Clara. 

"Awful  spindlin'-lookin',  though,  ain't  he?  Your     • 
pa  was  always  so  big  and  hearty  till  he  was  took 
down  with  typhoid  pneumonia.  I  always  liked  these 
strong,  hearty  men." 

"  Yes,"  said  Clara. 

"  Deliver  me  from  these  grunty  men  that's  always 
achin'  and  ailin'  and  fussin'  about  draughts  and 
catchin'  cold.  Miz  Parker,  where  he  boards,  was 
goin'  on  about  him  the  other  day.  She  says  he's  a 
reg'ler  old  granny  about  things.  There!  That  Bat- 
tenberg's  done  at  last.  I'm  goin'  to  have  a  piece  o' 
bread  and  butter  and  go  to  bed.  Did  you  hear  about 
Corinne  Snively?  She's  Mrs.  Perkypile's  cousin,  and 
Mrs.  Perkypile  was  invited  up  to  her  weddin'  up  to 
Radnor.  She  married  Morgan  Griffith,  and  they  got 
a  whole  lot  o'  nice  presents,  Mrs.  Perkypile  said; 
pickle  castor  and  two  sets  o'  plated  knives  and  forks, 
and  I  don't  know  what  all.  And  amongst  'em  was 
a  pair  o'  lace  curtains,  Battenberg,  all  hand-made, 
every  stitch.  Mrs.  Perkypile  said  they  were  the 
loveliest  things  she  ever  laid  eyes  on.  But  she  said 
look  like  the  burden  laid  on  Corinne  was  greater'n 
she  could  bear,  because  her  and  Morg  has  got  a 
big  bow  window  to  their  front  room,  and  one  pair 
won't  be  enough,  and  other  curtains  wouldn't  match, 
and  if  Corinne  don't  put  'em  in  her  front  windows 
so's  folks  goin'  by  can  see  'em,  the  lady  that  give 


16  FOLKS    BACK    HOME 

'em  '11  think  she  don't  appreciate  'em,  and  what 
to  do  she  don't  know,  and  the  lady  that  give 
'em  said  she  wouldn't  undertake  a  job  like  that 
again  for  a  thousand  dollars,  even  if  she  had  the 
time,  which  she  hasn't,  because  her  brother's  wife 
died  not  long  ago,  and  she's  takin'  care  of  the  chil 
dren.  We're  'most  out  o'  butter.  I  must  think 
to  order  some  in  the  mornin'.  He  didn't  make 
much  of  a  stay  to-night,  did  he?  Well,  what  did 
Prunes,  Prisms,  and  Pyramids  have  to  say  for  him 
self?  " 

"  Why,  among  other  things,"  said  Clara,  tasting 
the  humor  of  the  situation,  "  among  other  things, 
he  asked  me  if  I'd  marry  him." 

"  W'y,  Clara  Smith!  You  set  there  and  ca'mly  tell 
me  that!" 

"  Did  you  expect  me  to  jump  up  and  crack  my 
heels  together?  Yessum,  it's  the  pine-blank  facts 
I'm  a-tellin'  you.  Your  daughter  has  had  an  offer 
of  marriage." 

The  poor  lady's  jaw  dropped  with  chagrin  at  the 
recollection  of  what  she  had  just  said  about  Mr. 
Burns  and  with  astonishment  that  Clara  had  not  told 
her  sooner. 

"  And  what  did  you  say  to  him?  " 

"  While  you're  up,"  said  the  young  woman,  with 
half-dropped  eyelids  and  a  fine  affectation  of  calm 
ness,  "  I  wish  you'd  cut  and  spread  me  a  piece,  too. 


THE    SEAL    OF   THE    COVENANT       17 

Put  a  little  sugar  on  it,  won't  you?  I  believe  I'd 
like  it." 

"  Well,  you  are  the  funniest-actin'  girl  I  ever  saw. 
What  did  you  tell  him?  " 

"  What  would  you  want  me  to  tell  him?  " 

"  W'y— w'y— I— I  don't  know." 

"  I  didn't,  either." 

"  Did  you  say  that?  " 

"  No.  I  said  it  was  so  sudden  and — you  know — 
and  I'd  like  to  have  time  to  think  it  over.  No.  He 
said  that.  He  said  I  might  have  time  in  which  to 
consider  it." 

"  You're  goin'  to  take  him,  ain't  you?  " 

"Would  you?" 

Mrs.  Smith  sank  down  into  a  chair. 

"  W'y — ah — "  said  she,  and  sat  staring  at  nothing. 

II 

Mr.  Burns  was  to  come  for  his  answer  that  night 
a  week.  Clara  had  that  much  time  to  think  it  over, 
or,  rather,  to  talk  it  over  with  her  mother.  Between 
them  they  canvassed  the  advantages  and  disadvan 
tages  of  the  alliance,  now  one  favoring  it  and  now 
the  other. 

"Ain't  it  ridiculous?"  snickered  Clara  once,  after 
she  had  been  repelling  her  mother's  contention  that 
Mr.  Burns's  complexion  indicated  that  he  might  be 


i8  FOLKS    BACK    HOME 

liable  to  lung  trouble.  "  A  body'd  think  we  were 
buying  a  horse  and  wanted  him  warranted  sound  in 
wind  and  limb,  gentle  and  broke  to  double  harness. 
If  I  ought  to  take  him,  why,  I'd  want  him  so  bad 
I'd  be  like  that  girl  you  were  telling  me  about,  oh, 
what's  her  name?  You  know." 

"What  girl?" 

"  Why,  that  girl  when  the  fellow  asked  her  if  she'd 
marry  him  and  she  squalled  out :  '  W'y,  ye-e-es,  and 
jump  at  the  chance! '  You  know." 

"  Oh,  Priscill.  Strayer.  I  wouldn't  want  you  to  be 
like  her.  But  you  must  consider,  Clara,"  turning 
right  around  to  the  fervent  advocacy  of  Mr.  Burns 
when  Clara  attacked  him,  "  it  isn't  every  girl  has  a 
chance  to  get  as  good  a  man.  Now,  where  are  they 
a  nicer  one  in  this  town  than  him?  So  refined 
and " 

"  Always  wears  his  rubbers  and  shuts  the  door 
softly  and " 

"  Hush  up  when  I'm  talkin'  to  you.  And  though 
he  ain't  a  member  of  any  church,  he's  a  moral  man, 
and  I  believe  he's  a  good  man,  and  he  orta  make 
you  a  good  husband." 

"  Yes,  but  will  he?  " 

"Well,  that  they  can't  nobody  tell  till  they've 
tried.  Men  is  funny  creatures." 

"  Well,  I  guess  I  won't  try." 

"Why  not?" 


THE    SEAL    OF   THE    COVENANT      19 

"  I  don't  like  him  well  enough." 

"  Aw,  now,  yes,  you  do.  You  jist  a  little  while  ago 
said  he  was  good  company  and  could  carry  on  a 
conversation  lovely  about  Emerson  and  literatoor 
and  all  like  that.  You  said  you  liked  him  reel  well." 

"  That  isn't  it.  I  don't — isn't  it  funny  how  we  hate 
to  say  the  word? — I  don't  love  him." 

"  Aw,  well,  now,  Clara,  that's  foolishness.  This 
thing  o'  bein'  crazy  after  a  fellow,  like  they  are  in 
the  novels,  is  kind  o'  green,  I  think.  It  don't  last  no 
time.  A  girl  got  to  be  your  age  she  don't  git  car 
ried  away  with  that.  You  like  him,  and  you'll  like 
him  better  when  you  git  used  to  him." 

"  Maybe." 

"  And  another  thing.  He's  the  principal  of  the 
High  School  and,  if  you  didn't  take  him,  he  could 
make  it  mighty  unpleasant  for  you." 

"  Now,  Ma  Smith,  that  does  settle  it.  I  wouldn't 
have  him  after  that  if  he  was  the  last  man  on  earth. 
I've  got  as  many  friends  on  the  school  board  as  he 
has,  I  guess,  and  if  he  tries  to  come  any  of  his  shen- 
annigan  on  me,  he'll  find  out  a  thing  or  two,  I 
shouldn't  wonder." 

Mrs.  Smith  saw  her  mistake  in  a  minute,  and  after 
that  Mr.  Burns  never  got  a  good  word  from  her. 
As  for  the  married  state,  it  was  an  affliction  too 
grievous  to  be  borne  and  children — children  were  a 
terrible  care.  A  body  was  just  plumb  worried  out 


20  FOLKS    BACK   HOME 

of  their  mind,  what  with  scarlet  fever  and  mumps 
and  chicken  pox,  and  falling  down  on  knives  and 
hatchets,  and  stepping  on  broken  glass  and  getting 
the  lockjaw  from  it.  John  had  her  scared  half  to  death 
all  the  time  when  he  was  little. 

"  You  got  to  walk  softly  with  Clara,"  she  told 
herself.  "  Her  pa  used  to  call  her  '  Paddy's  pig/  she 
was  so  contrairy.  He  said  she  was  jist  fer  all  the 
world  like  that  pig  that  they  got  to  Dublin  only  by 
makin'  him  think  he  was  goin'  to  Cork.  She  was  as. 
fat  as  butter  then,  anyhow." 

As  a  result,  when  Mr.  Burns  called  on  the  fateful 
evening,  Clara  dodged  into  the  sitting  room  from 
the  front  window  and  whispered  hoarsely,  "  Here  he 
is  now.  Do,  for  mercy's  sake,  tell  me  what  to  say 
to  him." 

"  Well,  Clara,  all  I  got  to  say  is:  If  you  don't  like 
him,  don't  have  him." 

"  Well,  I  do  kind  o'  like  him." 

"  You  want  to  be  right  shore  now." 

"  I  guess  I  won't." 

"  All  right.  Suit  yourself.  They's  plenty  men  in 
the  world." 

"  It  seems  so  kind  o'  mean  to  snap  him  off  with 
*  No,' "  Clara  mused,  and  then  the  loud  clang  of  the 
doorbell  gong  exploded.  "  Good  land! "  she  scolded, 
"  I  wish  I'd  told  him  '  No,'  in  the  first  place." 

Mrs.  Smith  did  not  exactly  listen  at  the  keyhole, 


THE    SEAL    OF   THE    COVENANT      21 

but  she  made  no  more  noise  sitting  still  than  was 
necessary.  She  tried  to  forecast  the  result.  It  was  a 
funny  kind  of  doings,  Mrs.  Smith  thought.  It  wasn't 
that  way  in  her  young  days. 

Mr.  Burns  stayed  considerably  later  this  time,  but 
as  the  week  before,  in  the  hall,  just  as  he  departed, 
he  preferred  a  request  in  a  low  tone  of  voice,  and 
as  before  Mrs.  Smith  clairvoyantly  saw  Clara  shake 
her  head  in  refusal.  He  did  not  persist. 

"  Well?  "  said  Clara,  half  defiantly,  when  she  re 
turned  to  the  room  and  met  her  mother's  inter 
rogating  glance. 

"Well?" 

"Well— ah— "  Clara  started  to  relate,  and  then 
broke  off  to  titter:  "  Strikes  me  that  for  so  many 
'  wells '  the  conversation's  pretty  dry." 

This  was  too  much. 

"  Behave  yourself.  You're  actin'  flighty.  I  want 
you  to  quit  your  foolin'  and  tell  me  what  you  said 
to  that  man." 

"  Well,  sir,  ma,  I  fully  intended  as  much  as  any 
thing  to  tell  '  that  man/  as  you  call  him,  that  while 
I  appreciated  his  kind  offer  and  so  forth  and  so  forth, 
he'd  have  to  excuse  me  because  I  didn't  like  him  well 
enough.  But  when  I  saw  him  standing  there  looking 
so  pleading  and  yet  not  '  meechin'/  either. — He's 
got  awful  pretty  eyes.  Did  you  ever  notice  them, 
mother? — Well,  sir,  I  just  couldn't.  Now.  And  when 


22  FOLKS    BACK   HOME 

he  got  to  talking  and  said  it  would  ruin  his  life  if 
I  wasn't  a  part  of  it,  I  felt  like  a  sheep-killing  dog 
to  think  that  was  just  what  I  meant  to  do.  You  know 
what  an  influence  for  good  a  woman  can  be  in  a 
man's  life,  and  I  wouldn't  want  to  take  the  respon 
sibility  of  completely  spoiling  his  whole  career.  If 
he'd  got  soft  or  sickening,  I'd  have  turned  against 
him  right  then  and  there,  but  he  didn't.  And  yet 
for  all  he  was  dignified  about  it,  I  could  see  that 
he  was — er  .  .  ."  The  sentence  faded  out  unfin 
ished. 

"  You  think  he  likes  you  reel  well?  " 
"  Yes.  I'm  sure  he  does.  Yes,  I  know  he  does. 
He's  very  nice,'*  she  sighed,  softly. 
"  You  think  you  like  him?  " 
"  Yes,  I  don't  know  but  I  do." 
"  As  well  as  if  it  had  been  Dick  Wambaugh?  " 
Clara  shot  a  glance  at  her  mother,  but  said  noth 
ing.  She  divined  a  certain  feminine  jealousy  in  her 
that    another    woman,    though    her    daughter,    had 
found  favor  in  the  sight  of  a  man.  There  may  have 
been  some  of  that  left  over  from  youth,  but  Mrs. 
Smith    was    then    experiencing    the    disappointment 
that   attends   the   success   of   one's   plans.    She   had 
wanted  Clara  to  accept  Mr.  Burns,  and  now  that  he 
was   safely   landed   he   seemed   a   poor   thing.    The 
Widow  Parker  had  said  he  was  a  regular  old  granny. 
He  looked  as  if  he  might  be.  He  was  "  kind  o'  dili- 


THE   SEAL   OF   THE   COVENANT      23 

cate,"  too.  Mr.  Smith  had  been  so  hearty.  And  he 
was  so  precise  about  his  speech.  He  said  "  knaife  " 
and  "  laife  "  so  staccato,  so  neatly.  She  sighed. 

"  I  hope  you  done  wisely,  Clara,"  she  grieved. 

"  You  think  I  haven't?  "  was  Clara's  quick  retort. 

"  No,  oh,  no.  Not  at  all.  I  wouldn't  say  that — ex 
actly.  He's  a  very  nice  man  in  his  way,  no  doubt,  but 
still " 

"  But  still  what?  " 

"  Well,  of  course,  if  the  men  won't  ask  you,  w'y, 
you  can't  have  'em.  If  you  think  he  ain't  a-goin'  to 
be  consumpted,  w'y  all  right.  I  don't  say  but  what 
he's  as  good  as  you  can  do,  all  things  considered. 
Now,  it's  you  that's  got  to  be  suited,  not  me,  Clara. 
Only " 

"  Well?  "  Clara  was  growing  irritated. 

"  Well,  if  it  was  me,  I  think  I'd  ruther  have  a  man 
that  was  more  hearty-like,  and  (I  s'pose  it's  jist  a 
prejudice),  but  I've  always  thought  it  wasn't  a  man's 
place  to  teach  school." 

"  Oh,  now,  mother!  "  Clara  was  on  her  high  horse 
in  an  instant.  Her  beloved  profession  was  one  worthy 
of  the  highest  capacities  and  endeavors. 

'  Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Smith,  when  Clara  had  ended 
her  tirade.  "  Yes,  I  s'pose  that's  all  so,  but  I  think 
a  man  had  orta  be  in  better  business." 

"Look  at  you,  mother!"  stormed  Clara.  "You 
were  ding-donging  at  me  night  and  day  to  take  him, 


24  FOLKS    BACK    HOME 

and  now  that  I  have  taken  him  you  turn  right  around 
and  run  him  down." 

"  I  didn't,  either,  run  him  down.  I  was  only  tellin' 
you." 

"  Well,  isn't  what  you  said  running  him  down?  " 

"  No.  I  was  thinkin',  though " 

"  What  were  you  thinking?  Let's  have  it." 

"  I  don't  want  you  to  talk  to  me  in  that  sassy  way, 
Clara  Smith.  It  ain't  pretty  of  you.  Your  mother 
knows  what's  best  fer  you.  Now  listen  here.  You 
got  to  consider  everything,  and  now's  the  time  to 
do  it." 

"  Now?  " 

"  Yes,  now.  S'posin'  you'd  'a'  said  '  No '  to  him 
and  he'd  'a'  went  away  and  you'd  'a'  found  out  you 
liked  him,  w'y,  you'd  V  felt  mighty  flat,  I  guess,  to 
not  git  him.  You're  sure  of  him  now,  and  s'posin' 
you  find  out  he  isn't  as  nice  as  you  think  he  is,  and 
somebody  comes  along  'at  you  like  better,  w'y,  you 
can  back  out  any  time  you  want  to,  don't  you  see?  " 

"Why,  Mother  Smith!  After  I've  given  him  my 
word,  after  I  have  promised  him!  " 

"  Oh,  well,  now,  it  don't  do  to  be  so  particular 
about  your  word — especially  in  a  case  like  this,"  was 
Mrs.  Smith's  calm  reply. 

"Well,  of  all  things!  And  you  holding  up  my 
father  to  me  because  he  was  a  man  of  the  strictest 
honor  in  all  his  dealings.  And  I've  always  been  so 


THE    SEAL    OF    THE    COVENANT       25 

proud  when  people  told  me  that  Abner  Smith's  word 
was  as  good  as  anybody's  bond!  " 

"  He  was  a  man,  Clara,  and  that's  very  different. 
Come,  now,  you've  set  up  long  enough.  It's  time 
to  go  to  bed." 


Ill 

Winter  was  loath  to  let  go  that  year,  and  so, 
though  they  had  done  some  work  in  the  unusually 
mild  January  on  the  new  trolley  line  that  Abel  Horn 
had  been  instrumental  in  getting  for  Minuca  Center, 
the  ground  stayed  so  hard  that  it  was  not  until  the 
first  of  April  that  the  pick-and-shovel  Italians  made 
their  appearance.  Even  then  there  were  many  days 
of  wretched  weather  when  they  were  compelled  to 
stay  in  the  shanty  on  Mumma's  lot,  where  they  ate 
and  slept.  The  men  that  laid  the  rails  and  made  the 
connections  were  paid  by  the  month,  and  took  things 
more  philosophically  than  the  pick-and-shovel  men 
that  were  paid  only  by  day's  work. 

Minuca  Center,  all  of  a  twitter  because  of  the  trol 
ley  line  which  was  to  connect  it  with  Mt.  Victory 
and  Pharisburg  and,  after  a  while,  with  Columbus 
itself,  was  thrilled  to  hear  that  there  was  a  strike  on. 
The  first  impressions  of  the  Italians  had  not  been 
very  favorable.  Uncle  Billy  Nicholson  went  about 
portending  dire  calamities  to  the  nation  that  ad- 


26  FOLKS    BACK    HOME 

mitted  foreigners  to  take  the  jobs  away  from  native- 
born  Americans.  What  avail  was  it  to  have  a  tariff 
against  the  goods  made  by  the  pauper  labor  of 
Europe  when  the  pauper  labor  itself  came  right  over 
here,  feet,  feathers,  and  all?  Yes,  and  they  let  'em 
vote  after  they  had  been  here  a  while,  though  they 
were  Catholics  and  Democrats — same  thing — and 
wanted  the  Pope  to  get  control  of  the  govern 
ment.  The  children  mocked  the  "  dagoes,"  as  they 
called  them,  and  hallooed  at  them,  "  Matchicodatchi- 
cobabble-a-ba-a-a-a!  "  sagging  down  the  scale  on  the 
final  vowel  in  imitation  of  the  descendants  of  Caesar's 
legionaries. 

"  You  stop  that  this  instant!  "  their  mothers  cried. 
"  Don't  you  ever  say  that  again.  You  don't  know 
what  kind  o'  naughtiness  it  might*  be." 

Fear  followed  hard  after.  People  fastened  their 
front  door  when  they  went  to  bed  and  put  a  chair 
against  the  kitchen  door.  They  hid  their  wheel 
barrows  and  gardening  tools.  They  even  took  in 
their  washings  nights,  a  thing  unheard  of  before.  For 
Mrs.  Perkypile  had  found  one  of  the  Italians  tak 
ing  things  off  her  line,  right — off — the — line\  And 
she  had  to  hit  him  with  the  clothes-prop  before  he 
would  go  away.  It  was  awful  to  see  her  bug  her  eyes 
out  when  she  told  about  it,  and  to  hear  her  hoarse 
reproduction  of  his,  "  Me-a  .kill-a  you!" 

But  when  the  strike  came  it  was  felt  that  there 


THE    SEAL    OF    THE    COVENANT       27 

was  some  good  in  them.  Perhaps  they  might  be  men 
and  brethren,  after  all,  for  they  had  rebelled  against 
the  oppression  of  a  conscienceless  corporation,  and 
had  said  they  wouldn't  do  a  tap  of  work  unless  they 
too  were  paid  by  the  month,  so  that  they  would  not 
lose  money  when  it  rained. 

"  Them  dagoes  had  got  the  spirit  o'  '76  in  'em 
all  right,"  declared  Clarence  Bowersox  to  his  em 
ployer,  Otto  Littell. 

'''  Yes,"  the  grocer  assented,  a  little  gingerly, 
thinking  to  himself  that  he  paid  the  boy  all  he  was 
worth,  anyhow.  Then  the  American  in  him  got  the 
upper  hand  of  the  employer.  "  I  jox!  "  he  said,  "  it 
don't  look  right,  now,  does  it,  makin'  discrimina 
tions  that-a-way?  Well,  sir,  I  glory  in  their  spunk.  I 
hope  they'll  win.  'Course,  it  keeps  the  streets  all 
mussed  up,  but  they's  no  great  loss  without  some 
small  gain.  Cantrell,  the  foreman,  he  boards  'em,  and 
he  buys  quite  a  bill  o'  goods  o'  me.  He  says  he'd 
put  'em  out  while  they're  strikin',  only  he's  a-scared 
to.  He  says  they  wouldn't  think  no  more  o'  stickin' 
a  knife  into  him  if  he  tried  to  put  'em  out  the  shanty 
than  nothin'  at  all.  I  jox!  Ain't  that  turrable?  " 

"Aw,  well,  Cantrell!"  sneered  Clarence.  "I  got 
my  opinion  o'  Cantrell.  The  chief  ingineer's  comin' 
to-day." 

"What's  his  name?" 

"  Danged    if    I    know.    Comes    from    Chicago. 


28  FOLKS    BACK    HOME 

Drawed  all  the  plans  and  specifications.  Come  on  to 
see  how  things  is  a-gittin'  along." 

"  I  jox!  Wonder  how  he'll  like  it  to  find  there's  a 
strike." 

Clara  Smith  and  Mr.  Burns  were  out  walking  that 
afternoon  and  strayed  over  by  the  lot  where  the  Ital 
ians  were  loafing  and  dozing  in  the  sunshine  waiting 
for  a  decision  of  the  strike.  Mr.  Burns  was  talking 
about  whether  it  would  be  better  to  have  the  clay 
modeling  class  transferred  to  the  afternoon  session 
or  left  as  it  was  in  the  morning  session.  It  was  very 
difficult  for  him  to  come  to  a  decision  in  a  matter  so 
complex.  Clara  tried  to  help  him,  but  as  soon  as  she 
advanced  an  argument  in  support  of  his  position  he 
shifted  position  with,  "  But,  on  the  other  hand,  Miss 
Smith."  She  felt  vaguely  discontented  when  her  at 
tention  was  drawn  to  a  buggy  that  drove  up  to  the 
lot  with  two  men  in  it.  One  leaped  out  and  walked 
over  to  the  shanty  with  such  a  businesslike,  master 
ful  stride  that  she  stopped  to  look.  Mr.  Burns's  aca 
demic  murmur  was  broken  into  by  the  stranger's 
snappy:  "  Here!  why  aren't  you  men  at  work?  Get 
busy,  get  busy!  Lavore!" 

A  big  Italian  lifted  his  eyebrow,  took  his  pipe  out 
of  his  mouth,  and  said  something  she  couldn't  make 
out.  The  brusque  answer  came:  "  You  weren't  hired 
by  the  month  but  by  the  day.  You  understood  that 
before  you  took  on.  ...  No.  No.  ...  If  you  don't 


THE    SEAL    OF    THE    COVENANT       29 

like  it,  get  to  hell  out  of  here.  Jump  now.  .  .  .  Rail 
road  fare?  Not  on  your  life.  You  walk  back  if  you 
break  your  contract.  Now,  either  get  to  work  or 
get  out.  .  .  .  Oh,  sure.  Talk  it  over  with  the  others. 
Give  you  five  minutes."  He  looked  at  his  watch, 
snapped  it  shut,  and  strolled  easily  toward  the 
buggy. 

"  Why,  I  know  him,"  cried  Clara.  "  That's  Dick 
Wambaugh!" 

His  name  alone  carried  the  distance,  and  the 
stranger  quickly  turned  to  see  who  had  spoken  it. 
He  came  to  her  instantly,  his  hat  off,  his  hand  out 
stretched. 

"  Clara  Smith!  "  he  said.  "  Or  is  it?  "  He  glanced 
at  her  companion. 

"  Yes/'  she  laughed  nervously,  flushing  a  little. 
"  Still  Clara  Smith.  Mr.  Wambaugh,  let  me  present 
Mr.  Burns,  the  principal  of  the  High  School." 

She  did  not  add:  "  The  gentleman  I  have  engaged 
myself  to  marry."  Be  sure  that  of  the  two  men  it 
was  not  Dick  Wambaugh  that  noted  the  omission. 

"And  what  brings  you  here?"  she  asked,  wish 
ing  that  instead  she  might  make  as  pointed  a  query 
of  him  as  he  had  made  of  her. 

He  explained,  and  they  were  in  the  full  flood  of 
chatter  when  the  Italian  to  whom  he  had  spoken 
approached.  "  Excuse  me,"  said  Dick,  and  went  to 
meet  the  man.  Clara  saw  him  lean  over  to  catch  the 


30  FOLKS    BACK    HOME 

man's  first  low  words,  and  then  his  face  darkened 
and  hardened  as  the  workman,  emboldened,  poured 
forth  a  torrent  of  words. 

"  What's  that?  Say  that  again.  Oho!  So  that's  the 
milk  within  the  cocoanut.  .  .  .  Yes.  .  .  .  Yes.  .  .  . 
He  did,  eh?  Why  didn't  you?  .  .  .  Why  didn't  you 
tell  him?  .  .  .  Now,  listen.  You  tell  the  men  that 
there  won't  be  any  more  of  that.  The  company 
wouldn't  have  stood  for  it  for  a  minute  if  it  had 
known.  You  go  back  to  work,  understand?  What? 
Cantrell  takes  his  orders  from  me.  I'm  in  charge 
now.  Yes.  Get  to  work.  Pronto.  Hustle  now,  and 
you'll  get  a  full  day's  pay  for  to-day." 

Returning  to  Clara,  he  said:  "  Poor  devils! 
They've  been  robbed  right  and  left,  and  didn't  know 
how  else  to  get  redress.  Well,  how's  all  with  you? 
How's  your  mother?  Has  she  ever  forgiven  me  for 
stealing  those  pumpkin  pies  she  set  out  to  cool? 
Going  to  be  home  this  evening?  Tell  your  mother 
I'm  coming  up  to  see  her.  You,  too.  You'll  excuse 
me,  won't  you?  I  see  the  men  are  going  to  work. 
See  you  to-night,  Clara.  Good-by,  Mr. — Mr.  Burns, 
yes.  Pleased  to  meet  you." 

Clara  walked  away,  the  smile  of  parting  still  lin 
gering  on  her  face  and  warming  her  to  the  bone. 
She  came  to  herself  to  hear  Mr.  Burns  say:  "And 
not  only  the  matter  of  calling  you  by  your  first 
name.  I  do  not  wish  to  seem  exacting,  Miss  Smith, 


THE    SEAL    OF   THE    COVENANT      31 

but  I  do  think  you  should  have  intimated  to  Mr. — 
Mister — rah — Mr.  Wambaugh  that  you  were  my  af 
fianced,  and — ah — so,  not  at  liberty  to  receive  gen 
tlemen  callers  without  in  some  sort  receiving  my 
permission." 

"Aw,  fudge!"  said  Clara.  "Dick  Wambaugh 
used  to  sit  behind  me  in  school  and  pull  the  ribbons 
off  my  hair." 

They  had  a  famous  time  that  evening,  Dick  and 
Clara  and  her  mother,  gabbling  away  with,  "  Do  you 
remember?  "  and  "  Don't  you  mind?  "  and  "  What's 
become  of?  "  until  Dick  got  to  telling  of  his  experi 
ences  trying  to  get  a  footing  in  Chicago;  what  hard 
times  he  went  through,  and  how  once  when  he  was 
absolutely  without  a  cent  and  hungry,  he  found  a 
quarter  on  the  street  and  spent  it  in  that  restaurant 
in  West  Madison  Street  that  had  the  sign  out: 


FULL  MEAL, 

FIFTEEN  CENTS. 

A   PERFECT 

GORGE 
FOR  TWENTY. 


They  listened  with  lips  parted  and  eyes  that  shone 
as  he  told,  what  is  the  only  story  worth  telling,  the 


32  FOLKS    BACK    HOME 

story  of  struggle  and  unsatisfied  ambition.  Once  or 
twice  the  tears  came  into  the  women's  eyes.  It  was 
tragedy  to  them,  but  the  man  smiled  to  recall  the 
experience.  At  the  end  when  they  smiled  at  the 
happy  denouement  he  was  saddened.  Success?  There 
is  no  such  thing.  So  much  more  remains  to  be 
achieved.  Their  hearts  burned  within  them  as  it  be 
came  real  before  them,  this  active,  energetic  life 
that  accomplishes  things  for  which  Minuca  Center 
were  too  cramping  a  field. 

Clara  drew  a  long  breath.  She  dared  not  look  at 
her  mother,  whose  eyes  continually  awaited  her. 

All  at  once  Dick  spoke  up  brusquely:  "  How 
about  those  pumpkin  pies,  Mrs.  Smith?  " 

"  Dick  Wambaugh!  If  you  ain't  the  beatin'est  boy 
that  ever  was!  How'd  you  know  I  cut  up  my  last 
pumpkin  for  pies  and  baked  this  very  day?  " 

"  Oh,  I  mean  those  I  stole?  " 

"  Well,  I  mean  those  I  jist  baked.  Now  you  set 
still  and  I'll  run  and  cut  one." 

When  she  had  gone,  "  Clara,"  he  said,  fastening 
his  eyes  upon  her,  "  I  owe  you  a  letter.  Do  you  know 
that?" 

"  Why,  yes,  I  believe  you  do,"  she  said,  as  flut- 
teringly  as  any  schoolgirl. 

"  Do  you  know  why  I  never  wrote  it?  " 

The  words  should  never  have  made  her  blush  and 
look  down.  The  tone  did. 


THE    SEAL    OF   THE    COVENANT      33 

"  It  was  because  I  had  something  to  say  to  you 
that  I  couldn't  write.  I  know,  because  I  tried  a 
thousand  times  and  tore  up  all  the  letters.  At  first 
I  wasn't  in  a  position  financially,  and,  after  that,  I 
didn't  write  letters,  I  dictated  them.  This  was  some 
thing  I  couldn't  dictate.  Always  I  meant  to  come 
to  you  and  say  it  by  word  of  mouth.  I  am  ashamed 
to  own  that  I  have  been  too  busy.  But  there  is  some 
thing  more  in  life  than  business.  Getting  a  living  is 
only  half  of  life." 

She  looked  up  at  him.  He  had  thought,  then,  the 
same  thoughts  that  she  had. 

"  But  all  the  time,  busy  or  not,  at  the  back  of  my 
mind  you  stood.  It  was  like  the  subconscious  self 
the  psychologists  talk  about.  Have  I  been  in  your 
mind  like  that?  " 

A  wave  of  blood  drowned  the  pulse  of  her  heart 
and  choked  her  voice.  Her  lips  and  breath  formed: 
"  Yes." 

"  I  love  you,  Clara,"  he  said.  "  I  want  you  to  be 
my  wife.  Will  you?  " 

All  else  was  forgot,  all  but  the  overtowering  fact 
that  the  man  she  had  always  loved  and  longed  for 
had  told  her  that  he  loved  and  longed  for  her.  She 
looked  up  into  his  face.  She  could  only  wave  her 
head  in  solemn  affirmation. 

He  kissed  her. 

"  Well,  Dick,  here's  your  p —  Oh,  excuse  me!" 


34  FOLKS    BACK    HOME 

Mrs.  Smith  told  Clara  afterwards  she  thought  she 
should  sink  through  the  floor.  She  staggered  to  a 
chair  and  sat  down.  When  Dick  had  made  an  end  of 
speaking  she  stood  the  pie  knife  on  the  pie  plate 
and  viewed  its  point  judicially  as  she  said:  "  Well, 
Mr.  Wambaugh,  as  far  as  I  am  concerned, 
you  know  I  think  the  world  and  all  of  you  and 
always  did,  and  as  far  as  Clara's  concerned,  I  don't 
know  but  what  it'll  be  all  right,  but  they's  a  gen 
tleman  that — ah — calls — ah — occasionally — that — 
ah " 

Dick  looked  at  Clara. 

"  Mr.  Burns/'  she  said,  and  went  crimson.  "  I  in 
troduced  him  to  you  this  afternoon." 

"  Oh,  that?  What's  the  Human  Clothes-prop  got 
to  say  about  it?  " 

"  Why,  you  didn't  ever  write,  you  know,"  Clara 
half  wept,  "  and " 

"And  I  don't  know  what  he'll  think  about  it," 
pursued  Mrs.  Smith.  "  He  considers  that  him  and 
Clara  is  engaged." 

"Well,  I  don't.  Now!"  declared  Clara,  defiantly. 
"  He  wanted  me  to  kiss  him,  but  I  wouldn't.  Oh, 
Dick!  I've  always  loved  you,  and  I  just  felt  awful 
when  you  stopped  writing,  and  I  was  going  to  write 
to  you  anyhow,  only  I  wras  afraid  you'd  think  I  was 
too  bold,  and  I  didn't  know  where  to  direct  it  be 
cause  you  said  you  were  going  to  move,  and —  Oh, 


THE    SEAL    OF   THE    COVENANT      35 

what  am  I  going  to  do  about  it?  Mother,  tell  me 
what  to  do." 

"  Well,  Clara,  you  must  decide  for  yourself." 

"  Well,  if  it  comes  to  that —  Dick,  as  true  as  I 
live,  I  never  let  him  or  anybody  else  ever  kiss  me! 
Honest,  I  didn't!  Only  you." 

"  You  regard  the  kiss  as  binding  the  bargain?  " 
he  asked,  quizzically. 

"  Well,  kind  o'." 

"  The  Seal  of  the  Covenant,  eh?  You  witnessed  me 
kiss  your  daughter,  ma'am?  " 

«  Well— ah " 

"  Oh,  if  there's  any  doubt  about  it — "  The  doubt 
was  removed.  "And  once  more.  This  time  to  bind 
me." 

! 

(That  ought  to  express  it,  if  type  can.) 

Some  in  Minuca  Center  thought  poor  Mr.  Burns 
had  been  treated  shamefully.  Others — among  them 
Sarepta  Downey — said:  "  She  done  jist  right.  It's 
different  with  a  woman  about  keepin'  your  word. 
'Specially  in  a  case  like  that.  He  didn't  lose  no  time, 
did  he?" 

The  following  dialogue  explains  itself: 

"  Dicky,  mamma  told  you  twice  to  let  that  alone. 

This  time  I'm  going  to  give  you  a  good  smacking. 

See  if  you  can  remember  that." 


36  FOLKS   BACK   HOME 

"  Now,  Clara,  now,  now,  that's  no  way  to  do. 
Dicky  didn't  mean  any  harm,  did  you,  Dicky?  No, 
o'  course  not.  You  come  upstairs  with  grandma  and 
see  what  she's  got  for  you." 


THE   LOST    DAY 

I    DECLARE,  I  feel  right  sorry  for  the  pore 
boy,"  said  Sarepta  Downey,  as  she  held  aside 
her   front-room    window    shade    so   that    she 
might  look  out  upon  the  agony  of  Garfield  Lincoln 
McKinnon,  doing  such  penance  in  the   streets   of 
Minuca  Center  as  made  the  sufferings  of  his  mar 
tyred  namesakes  seem  no  more  than  growing  pains. 
With  Indian  cruelty  a  lot  of  children  had  gath 
ered  about  the  boy  as  he  minded  the  team  out 
side   Galbraith's   store  while   his  parents   did   their 
"  trading."  The  malicious  youngsters  were  gleefully 
chanting  to  the  traditional  melody: 


-j>,i.<_>nN  y  j  Ji  J  j    j.i 

<Stame!  5Hame!   Ev-  ty-bo*cfy*  knows  your  name! 

Passers-by  turned  to  look  and  spoke  to  each  other, 
and  the  lad  could  see  them  say:  "  Oh,  that's  McKin- 
non's  boy,  is  it?  " 

It  is  surely  enough  misery  merely  to  be  looked  at 
when  one  has  reached  the  age  when  his  Adam's  apple 

37 


38  FOLKS    BACK    HOME 

sticks  out  in  his  throat  and  wabbles  up  and  down  as 
his  voice  vacillates  between  treble  and  bass;  when 
one  blushes  at  the  indecent  haste  of  his  wrists  to 
grow  out  from  under  the  cover  of  his  sun-faded  coat, 
and  the  two  clerks,  with  noses  like  a  figure  6,  loung 
ing  in  the  doorway  of  Morgenroth's  New  York  One 
Price  Clothing  House,  make  loud  comments  like, 
"  Geth  onta  da  high-vater  pence!  "  but  to  be  jeered 
at  in  the  sight  of  all  the  town  for  what  was  not  a 
fault,  and  even  if  it  were,  was  not  his  fault,  seemed 
to  Garfield  Lincoln  McKinnon  more  than  he  ought 
to  be  made  to  endure.  Yet  he  must  endure  it.  But 
this  was  the  last  time.  He  was  going  away — didn't 
they  wish  they  knew  where? — and  when  he  came 
back  he  would  show  them! 

Indeed  they  did  wish  they  knew.  Every  man, 
woman,  and  child  in  Minuca  Center  was  gnawed 
with  anxiety  to  learn  where  Alanson  McKinnon,  his 
wife,  and  son  were  going,  and  when  they  were  com 
ing  back.  That  they  were  coming  back  was  certain. 
All  could  guess  pretty  well  why  they  were  going. 
It  was  to  escape  the  persecution  of  John  Mumma. 
But  why  were  they  coming  back?  John  Mumma 
would  be  eager  to  renew  his  harassing  the  very  next 
Sunday  after  McKinnon's  return,  and  if  not  John, 
then  some  other  one  of  the  Mumma  tribe,  just  as 
keen  to  take  up  the  old  feud. 

They  had  all  tried  to  wheedle  it  out  of  Alanson 


THE   LOST   DAY  39 

McKinnon,  but  he  had  bluntly  bade  them  mind  their 
own  business,  if  they  had  any.  Mrs.  McKinnon  had 
bridled  and  smiled,  and  dropped  her  eyelids,  and 
doddered  her  head  while  she  answered  that  "  she 
didn't  know  as  she  had  orta  say;  they  better  ask  Mr. 
Mac."  And  when  this  very  Sarepta  Downey  had  lav 
ished  her  autumnal  blandishments  upon  Garfy,  he 
hung  his  head  and  scratched  one  foot  with  the  other 
and  gulped  his  Adam's  apple  up  and  down  and  said 
— not  a  word.  "  Acted  like  a  perfect  fool,"  she  said, 
with  asperity,  afterwards. 

The  limelight  of  publicity  had  shone  on  the  Mc- 
Kinnons  for  a  long  time,  and  that  made  the  mystery 
all  the  more  irritating  to  the  people  of  the  Center. 
Alanson  McKinnon  had  interested  them  much.  He 
was  a  church  all  by  himself,  the  last  remaining  frag 
ment  of  the  sect  of  the  Baileyites,  or  "  Searchers," 
as  they  preferred  to  be  called  after  their  favorite  text : 
"  Search  the  Scriptures."  The  founder,  the  Rev. 
Jeremiah  Bailey,  had  been  put  out  of  the  Mt.  Vic 
tory  Presbytery  for  refusing  to  hold  meeting  on 
Sunday.  He  said  it  was  nothing  less  than  rank  idol 
atry,  thus  to  honor  the  Sun  by  keeping  his  day  holy, 
and  also  defiance  of  the  Almighty  whose  express 
command  was  to  observe  the  seventh.  Starting  out 
for  himself  on  this  line,  the  Rev.  Jeremiah  Bailey  had 
gathered  together  a  congregation,  to  whose  mem 
bership  he  was  heartily  welcome,  as  far  as  the  other 


40  FOLKS    BACK    HOME 

pastors  were  concerned.  There  was  Marinus  Moran 
who  wanted  to  boss  every  church  he  had  ever  joined, 
and  who  could  make  more  trouble  than  three  choirs. 
There  was  "  Tepe  "  Armstrong,  who  proved  every 
thing  by  quotations  from  the  works  of  his  illustrious 
namesake,  Flavius  Josephus,  the  Jewish  historian; 
Uncle  Billy  Roebuck,  who  said  he  saw  visions;  Zimri 
Hollabaugh,  who  spoke  by  the  hour  in  "  tongues  " 
that  nobody  could  understand,  and  who  would  not 
be  shut  off  for  any  sake;  Aunt  Betty  Moore,  who 
could  out-talk  him  and  had  been  led  out  of  more  than 
one  church,  and  not  always  quietly.  There  were  four 
or  five  more  of  the  same  sort,  and  last  of  all  came 
Alanson  McKinnon.  He  was  chiefly  noted  for  being 
more  "  sot  in  his  ways "  than  any  other  man  in 
Logan  County. 

It  was  a  queer  congregation  and  a  queerer  pastor, 
for  toward  the  last  he  became  convinced  that  he  was 
the  seventh  angel  with  the  seventh  trumpet,  and 
went  around  climbing  up  on  barns  and  smoke-houses 
to  blow  a  long  tin  horn,  until  the  constable  came  and 
took  him  to  the  county  house. 

After  that  the  "  Searchers  "  were  scattered  abroad 
as  sheep  having  no  shepherd,  all  except  Alanson  Mc 
Kinnon,  who  was  really  the  only  convert  of  the  Rev. 
Jeremiah  Bailey's  making.  He  held  fast  to  the  name 
and  the  one  doctrine  that  he  had  managed  to  get 
clearly  into  his  head,  that  the  seventh  day  was  the 


THE   LOST    DAY  41 

Sabbath.  He  and  his  never  set  foot  inside  other 
churches,  but  Alanson  conducted  a  sort  of  service 
in  their  front  room,  and  passed  a  dull  Saturday  in 
the  strictest  Sabbatical  observance.  At  the  first  he 
gloried  in  his  oddity,  and  he  and  Garfy  used  to  work 
in  the  fields  as  close  to  the  big  road  as  they  could 
get  on  a  Sunday  when  the  neighbors  were  going  to 
meeting.  It  mortified  Garfy  to  death  to  be  seen 
working  in  his  old  duds  when  the  other  boys  were 
all  dressed  up  in  store  clothes;  but  the  greatest  cross 
of  all  was  laid  upon  his  mother.  Alanson  made  her 
ring  the  bell  for  dinner  just  the  same  as  if  it  was 
a  common  day.  Every  time  she  went  out  to  the  pole 
set  in  the  ground  close  to  the  well  and  pulled  the 
bell  rope,  she  got  red  in  the  face.  It  seemed  to  her 
that  she  could  see  the  whole  countryside  stop  and 
hearken,  and  that  she  could  hear  them  say  to  one  an 
other:  "That's  Nancy  McKinnon  callin'  her  man  in 
from  work  on  Sunday." 

If  anybody  said  to  Alanson,  "  I  s'pose  it's  all  right 
to  keep  Saddy  for  Sabbath  if  you  want  to,  but  why 
can't  you  keep  Sunday,  too,  luck  the  rest  of  us?  " 
he  had  an  answer  ready:  "  I  got  Scripter  for  it.  '  Six 
days  shelt  thou  labor/  the  book  says." 

"  But  it's  agin  the  law  of  the  land." 

"  Tain't  agin  the  law  of  the  Lord,"  said  Alanson, 
and  after  that  the  man  would  generally  drive  on. 

But  being  a  living  epistle,  known  and  read  of  all 


42  FOLKS    BACK    HOME 

men,  lost  its  attractiveness  when  John  Mumma  dis 
covered  that  he  had  at  last  an  opportunity  to  get 
revenge  for  the  land  lost  when  the  referees  went 
against  him  in  the  boundary-line  dispute. 

One  Sunday  morning  just  as  all  the  folk  were 
going  to  meeting,  and  Alanson  was  out  in  the  field 
as  large  as  life  hoeing  potatoes,  up  came  Mumma 
and  Billy  Belt,  the  constable,  who  arrested  him  for 
performing  servile  labor  on  the  first  day  of  the  week, 
commonly  called  Sunday.  He  was  fined  three  dol 
lars  and  costs.  Next  Sunday  it  was  the  same  thing, 
and  so  it  continued.  McKinnon  determined  to  work 
on  Sunday  and  Mumma  determined  to  have  him  ar 
rested  if  he  did.  There  was  one  good  thing  about 
this:  Nancy  McKinnon  no  longer  had  to  ring  the 
dinner  bell,  for  Alanson  hid  his  work  and  went  to 
it  with  all  possible  concealment.  But  the  Mummas 
didn't  have  "  Injun  blood  "  in  them  for  nothing,  and 
one  or  another  of  them  always  found  him  out. 

Thus  it  was  evident  to  all  that  the  McKinnons 
were  going  away  to  get  shut  of  all  this.  But  why 
come  back  to  enter  again  the  furnace  of  affliction? 
This  was  what  disturbed  the  inquiring  minds  of  the 
people  of  Minuca  Center. 

Alanson  had  discovered  a  way  out.  A  door  had 
been  opened  for  him  in  a  quarter  least  expected.  In 
the  early  days  of  his  adhesion  to  the  sect  of  the  Rev. 
Jeremiah  Bailey,  he  had  been  set  upon  by  the  ortho- 


THE    LOST    DAY  43 

dox  and  badgered  into  argument.  In  giving  a  reason 
for  the  faith  that  was  in  him,  he  had  had  so  decidedly 
the  best  of  it  that  he  tasted  the  fierce  joys  of  con 
troversy,  and  after  that  he  went  up  and  down  seek 
ing  them,  as  in  his  younger  and  unregenerate  days 
he  had  looked  for  a  fight.  One  day  he  made  up  his 
mind  to  attack  old  Dr.  Cooper.  From  a  tactical  point 
of  view,  this  was  an  error.  All  Alanson's  previous 
victories  had  been  won  by  flinging  texts  of  Scripture 
at  men  that  recognized  them  as  weighty  missiles  and 
behaved  accordingly.  But  Dr.  Cooper,  like  Gallio, 
"  cared  for  none  of  these  things."  He  was  an  infidel 
and  a  spiritualist.  His  wife  wore  calico  trousers  to 
her  shoe  tops,  and  skirts  to  her  knees,  devised  in  an 
age  that  knew  not  bicycles.  Her  hair  was  short  and 
her  "  medium  controls  "  were  "  Cyrus  the  Great," 
and  "  Little  Snowdrop,"  the  disembodied  spirit  of 
an  Indian  girl,  that  spoke  partly  in  baby  talk  and 
partly  in  something  like  an  Englishman's  notion  of 
negro  dialect.  When  traveling  mediums  came  to 
Minuca  Center  they  always  stopped  at  the  Coopers'. 
The  fame  of  the  mighty  works  they  did  was  spread 
far  and  wide,  and  children  that  had  to  go  by  the 
house  after  nine  o'clock  at  night  walked  on  the  other 
side  of  the  street. 

Dr.  Cooper  jumped  at  the  chance  for  a  debate. 
He,  too,  was  born  in  Arcadia.  Blandly  waving  aside 
all  the  familiar  texts,  he  took  his  stand  on  natural 


44  FOLKS    BACK    HOME 

philosophy.  He  maintained  that  there  couldn't  be 
one  day  in  the  week  that  should  be  kept  holy,  be 
cause  while  it  was  Saturday  here,  it  was  Sunday  on 
the  other  side  of  the  world.  He  explained  that  some 
where  in  the  Pacific  there  was  an  imaginary  line 
where  the  day  began.  If  you  sailed  around  the  earth 
keeping  Sunday,  when  you  got  back  to  your  starting 
point  you  would  find  the  folks  keeping  Sunday  on 
your  Saturday,  or  your  Monday,  according  to  which 
way  you  went;  providing,  of  course,  that  you  did  not 
follow  the  common  practice  of  adding  or  dropping 
a  day  to  keep  on  good  terms  with  the  calendar. 

Alanson  sat  so  still  that  the  doctor  thought  he 
had  made  a  convert.  Never  was  man  more  mistaken. 
It  was  all  news  to  McKinnon,  and  he  came  and  came 
again,  getting  Dr.  Cooper  to  go  over  the  same  ar 
gument  each  time.  One  day  he  asked,  for  he  was 
not  quick  on  the  uptake:  "You're  sure  that  if  a 
man  was  to  sail  East  around  the  world,  a-keepin' 
the  seventh  day  as  the  Sabbath  and  still  a-stickin' 
to  it,  regardless  of  other  folks'  a-munkin'  with  the 
days  of  the  week,  when  he  got  back,  he'd  still  be 
a-keepin'  the  Sabbath  and  they'd  be  a-keepin'  Sun 
day?  " 

Dr.  Cooper  was  so  constituted  as  to  be  certain  of 
everything  that  he  said,  and  able  to  disprove  any 
thing  that  anybody  else  said.  He  affirmed  that  his 
statement  was  absolutely  correct  and  could  be 


THE    LOST    DAY  45 

proved  by  the  globe.  Alanson  rose  with  a  smile  on 
his  face  and  thereafter  came  no  more.  Next  day  the 
old  doctor  was  disturbed  by  an  impression  that  he 
wanted  to  see  McKinnon  about  something.  But  he 
was  getting  old  and  forgetful,  and  it  passed  out  of 
his  mind. 

Alanson  had  once  heard  the  Sabbath  called  "  the 
Pearl  of  Days,"  and  so  that  night,  when  at  family 
prayers,  he  lighted  upon  the  parable  of  the  merchant 
that  found  the  pearl  of  great  price  and  sold  all  that 
he  had  and  went  and  bought  it,  the  tears  came,  and 
his  voice  quavered  and  broke.  Without  doubt  what 
he  had  been  thinking  of  was  a  "  leading."  The 
drowsing  Garfield  Lincoln  opened  his  eyes  with  as 
tonishment,  but  he  widened  them  still  more  when 
his  father  shut  the  book  and  told  what  was  in  his 
heart  to  do.  They  were  not  done  stretching  with 
amaze  three  weeks  later,  when  the  Eastern  Emperor, 
a  British  tramp  steamer  with  a  mixed  cargo  in  its 
hold  for  Hongkong  and  Manila,  steamed  past  Sandy 
Hook  with  Garfield  Lincoln  McKinnon  on  board, 
articled  as  cabin  boy,  his  mother  as  cook,  and  his 
father  rendering  such  assistance  as  a  strong,  active, 
and  willing  man  can  who  has  never  seen  salt  water 
before. 

For  many  months  Minuca  Center  had  ceased  to 
excite  itself  about  the  McKinnons  and  their  where- 


46  FOLKS    BACK   HOME 

abouts.  War  bulletins  were  its  meat  and  drink  now. 
There  was  hardly  anybody  at  the  station  when  Alan- 
son,  his  wife,  and  Garfy  got  off  the  12.55  train  fr°m 
the  West.  They  walked  up  Main  Street,  which  was 
all  aflap  with  American  flags  and  another  kind  that 
looked  like  a  piece  of  cranberry  pie  on  blue-and- 
white  bed  ticking.  Across  the  street  hung  a  banner 
bearing  this  device: 


REMEMBER   THE    MAINE 

THING  IS  TO  BUY  YOUR 

GROCERIES  AT  CAMPBELLS. 

Highest  Prices  Paid  for  Country  Produce. 


Some  few  of  the  populace  rushed  upon  them  with 
outstretched  hands  and  remarked  how  well  they  were 
looking.  Alanson  seemed  strangely  diffident. 

"  W'y  whur  y'all  be'n  f'r  so  long?"  asked  Henry 
Peters. 

"  Traveling"  said  Alanson  shortly,  and  made  as 
if  to  move  on. 

"That  so?  Whur  to?" 

"  Oh,  all  'round,"  which  was  strictly  true,  but 
hardly  informative. 

As  they  passed  on,  who  should  meet  them  but  old 
Dr.  Cooper.  McKinnon  apparently  did  not  see  him, 
but  the  doctor  called  out: 


THE    LOST    DAY  47 

"Alanson!  Look  here  a  minute.  I  must  have 
missed  you  every  time  you  come  to  town  here 
lately.  I  been  a-meanin'  to  tell  you  that  I  was 
wrong  about  sailin'  around  the  world  from  East 
to  West " 

"  Yes,"  said  Alanson,  not  giving  him  a  chance  to 
finish  the  sentence,  "  I  have  sence  found  out  you 
was,"  and  passed  on  with  so  chill  an  air  that  the  old 
man  did  not  know  what  to  make  of  it. 

Garfy  was  a  changed  boy  from  what  he  was  when 
last  the  Center  saw  him.  He  who  had  been  so  pain 
fully  bashful,  now  looked  at  the  girls  with  a  con 
quering  eye.  The  misses,  that  aforetime  had  tittered 
at  his  embarrassment  when  they  teased  him,  felt  a 
flutter  under  their  organdie  waists  as  his  gaze  fol 
lowed  them  from  under  Campbell's  awning  where 
he  was  being  quizzed  by  the  boys. 

"  Whur  all  you  be'n,  Garfy?  " 

"  Oh,  jist  around  the  world,"  says  Garfy,  non 
chalantly  putting  out  the  tip  of  his  tongue  and 
squinting  up  his  eyes  as  if  to  look  at  something  far 
away. 

"  Jeeminently !  "  chorused  the  others,  their  eyes 
sticking  out  in  amaze. 

Then  doubt  arose. 

"Yes,  you  have.  Like  hen!" 

"  Oh,  all  right.  Whurj  s'pose  I  got  these?  "  He 
pulled  out  a  handful  of  curiously  carved  nuts. 


48  FOLKS    BACK    HOME 

*  These  I  bought  in  Hongkong  and  these  here  is 
from  Manila." 

"  Oh,  was  you  to  Manila?  " 

"  Well,  I  guess  yes." 

All  were  silent,  stunned  by  the  presence  of  a  great 
truth.  Then  spoke  up  "Turkey-egg"  McLaughlin: 

"  Whadge  go  fur?  " 

Garfy  spat  a  very  small  drop  and  brushed  an  imag 
inary  shading  of  dust  from  his  leg  before  he  an 
swered: 

"  Pap's  idy,"  he  said.  "  He  was  jist  bound  and 
determined  to  keep  Saddy  for  Sabbath  and  work 
Sunday.  Doc  Cooper  told  him  if  he'd  sail  'round  the 
world  to  the  east'ard  he'd  git  back  here  still 
a-keepin'  Saddy  whilst  you  was  a-keepin'  Sunday. 
So  he  done  it.  Mumma  persecuted  him  so." 

"  Mumma's  dead,"  piped  in  little  "  Bunt  "  Rogers. 
"  Be'n  dead  'bout  a  month  now.  Horse  kicked 
him." 

"  Well,  he  orta  die,"  replied  the  unfeeling  Garfy. 
"  Anybody  act  the  way  he  did.  Well's  I  was  goin' 
to  tell  you,  we'd  jist  got  into  Manila  Bay  one  night 
and  was  anchored  out  waitin'  for  mornin'.  The  skip- 
per " 

"The  what?" 

"  The  skipper.  The  old  man." 

"  Oh,  your  daddy." 

"  Naw.  The  captain.  Cap'un  Prunk  his  name  was. 


THE  LOST  DAY  49 

Look  here,  if  you  country  jakes  is  a-goin'  to  put  in 
your  oar  all  the  time,  I  won't  tell  you  a  doggone 
thing." 

The  boys  exchanged  a  frightened  and  awed  look. 
Was  this  really  Garfy? 

"  We  was  a-layin'  there  and  Cap'n  Prunk  come 
and  shook  me.  '  Tumble  out,  boy/  he  says,  all  ex 
cited.  '  Tumble  out  and  go  run  and  tell  your  daddy 
to  come  aft/  he  says.  '  Got  somepin  to  show  him.' 
Pap  come  and  the  old  man  give  him  his  spyglass. 
1  There,  you  Yankee/  he  says,  '  tell  me  if  that  ain't 
nice/  Pap  started  to  say,  '  I  ain't  no  Yankee/  and 
all  of  a  sudden  he  began  to  holler.  He  got  shoutin' 
happy.  '  Glory! '  he  says,  '  it's  our  ships  and  they're 
a-goin'  to  pitch  right  into  them  Spanishers  over 
yan/  he  says. 

" '  Right  you  are/  says  the  skipper,  '  and  they 
ain't  a-goin'  to  wait  till  Monday,  either.'  Pap  looked 
at  him  kind  o'  funny  and  says,  '  Monday? ' 

"  '  Yes/  says  the  skipper.  '  To-day's  Sunday.  We 
gotta  drop  a  day,  you  know/  he  says.  You'd  a 
thought  it  was  pap  that  dropped,  he  looked  so  flab 
bergasted.  But  pretty  soon  we  seen  somepin  white 
squirt  out  of  the  side  of  one  o'  our  ships  and  then 
I  heard  somepin  go  'Bump!'  like  you  was  kickin' 
on  the  door  of  an  empty  room,  and  then,  '  Ar-r-r-r! ' 
like  a  coffee  mill,  and  then,  '  Ker-boong! '  Shell 
a-bustin'." 


50  FOLKS    BACK    HOME 

Garfy  made  a  rhetorical  pause  in  order  to  let  his 
weighty  words  sink  in. 

"  Bunty  "  Rogers  seized  the  opportunity.  "  I  was 
to  Clumbus  on  the  Fourth,"  he  shrilled,  "  an'  I 
heard  'em  shoot  off  a  cannon.  Oo-oh,  wasn't  it  loud? 
A  real  cannon  it  was,  like  they  use  to  the  war." 

"Huh!"  sneered  Garfy,  "one  o'  these  here  little 
footy  fieldpieces.  I've  seen  'em.  What  I'm  a-talkin' 
about  is  these  here  great  guns,  long's  from  here 
acrost  the  road.  They  don't  shoot  no  cannon  balls. 
They've  got  great,  big,  long  steel  things  that  they 
shoot  out  of  'em.  Tail's  you  are  and  shaped  like  a 
cigar.  The  Spaniards  was  layin'  over  by  Cavite. 
S'posin'  this  was  Cavite."  Garfy  laid  out  his  war  map 
on  the  gravel  walk.  "  They  come  right  back  at  old 
Dewey,  and  I  jis'  tell  you  things  was  a-poppin' 
around  there.  Look  luck  pap  he  had  the  dumps  for 
a  spell,  but  'twa'n't  long  'fore  he  was  a-whoopin'  an* 
a-hollerin'  luck  a  crazy  man.  One  o'  these  here  little 
torpedo  boats  come  a-scootin'  out  to  blow  up  our 
ships  an'  pap  yelled:  l  Head  her  off! ' 

"  They  did.  Twa'n't  but  a  minute  'fore  she  broke 
for  the  shore  an'  run  aground.  Pap  was  jist  a-dancin'. 
Old  Dewey,  he  knocked  off  for  breakfast  an'  all  that 
time  them  Spanish  ships  was  a-burnin'  an'  a  blowin' 
up  worse'n  any  old  Fourth  o'  July  you  ever  see. 
When  they  s'rendered,  pap  he  was  jist  so  tickled  he 
clean  fergot  all  his  own  trouble." 


THE    LOST    DAY  51 

"Why,  what  was  his  trouble?"  asked  "Turkey- 
egg  "  McLaughlin. 

"  Why,  dad  blame  it!"  snapped  the  impatient 
Garfy.  "  Didn't  I  jist  tell  you  we  went  around  the 
world  a-purpose  to  gain  a  day?  An'  here  we  went 
an'  lost  one.  We  come  acrost  to  'Frisco  an'  home 
by  the  cars,  an'  now  pap  he'll  have  to  keep  Friday 
for  Sabbath,  'r  else  do  jist  luck  the  rest  o'  folks.  I 
d'know  which  he's  a-goin'  to  do.  He  ain't  said." 

"  Look  luck  you  had  your  trip  for  nothin',"  com 
mented  "  Turkey-egg." 

"  Well,"  said  Garfy,  "  that  was  some  of  a  disap 
pointment.  We  lost  a  day,  but  we  seen  Dewey  win 
one.  The  way  I  look  at  it,  that  kind  o'  evens  things 
up." 


AN    INDIAN    SUMMER   LOVE    STORY 

WELL,  now,  if  I  was  you,  S'repty,  I 
wouldn't  bother  my  head  about  it  one 
second,"  declared  Mrs.  Parker.  "  It's  all 
right.  He's  a  very  nice  man,  this  Mr.  Frizzell " 

"  Frazee,"  corrected  Sarepta. 

"  Frazee,  then.  I'm  the  poorest  hand  for  names. 
I  jist  can't  keep  'em  in  my  head.  Very  nice  and  quiet. 
I  put  him  at  that  little  table  over  there  in  the  cor 
ner  by  the  window  and  you  don't  hardly  hear  a  word 
out  of  him.  At  first  I  thought  him  and  me  wasn't 
goin'  to  get  along  at  all.  He  couldn't  drink  this  here 
ten-cent  coffee  that  comes  already  browned.  Went 
all  around  town  lookin'  for  good  coffee.  Otho  Littell 
was  tellin'  me  how  he  showed  Mr.  Fusee " 

"  Frazee." 

"  Frazee.  I  know.  Ain't  it  ridiculous  I  can't  remem 
ber  it?  The  very  best  they  was  in  town  Otho  showed 
him  and  he  jist  run  his  hands  through  it  and  smelled 
of  it  and  says: '  Huh! '  jist  like  that,  and  turned  on  his 
heel  and  walked  out.  '  Well,'  I  says  to  myself,  '  if 
that's  the  way — '  And  then  he  sent  off  and  got  a  bag 
o*  some  kind  of  coffee — he  told  me  the  name  of  it,  too 

5* 


AN  INDIAN  SUMMER  LOVE  STORY     53 

— ker-boom  or  ker-slam — I  don't  know.  Anyhow  he 
wanted  me  to  brown  it  for  him.  '  Well,  now,'  I  says 
to  myself,  '  my  days  o'  brownin'  coffee  in  a  pan  in  the 
oven  is  past  and  gone  too  long  ago  to  talk  about.' 
But  he  was  so  nice  and  said  he'd  pay  me  for  my 
trouble  that  I  jist  couldn't  say  no  to  him.  It's  awful 
nice  flavored,  the  way  he  has  me  make  it  for  him, 
but  la  me!  if  I  was  to  drink  it  as  strong  as  Mr.  Frazer 
drinks  it " 

"  Frazee." 

"  As  Mr.  Frazee  drinks  it — I  jist  can  not  keep 
names  in  my  head — why,  I  couldn't  sleep  a  wink. 
Why,  it's  as  black  as  tar.  Yes,  sir.  I  don't  believe  it's 
good  for  the  health  to  drink  it  as  strong  as  all  that." 

"  But  don't  you  think " 

"  But  that's  the  only  thing,  and  as  far  as  your 
givin'  yourself  one  minute's  uneasiness  for  fear 
folks'll  talk  about  you  because  you  got  this  Mr. 
What-you-may-call-'im  for  a  roomer  and  you  all  by 
yourself,  why  I  wouldn't  think  of  it.  Why,  do  you 
s'pose  if  I  thought  they  was  anything  wrong  about 
it,  I'd  ha'  sent  him  over  to  your  house  to  get  a  room 
when  I  was  all  full  up?  Why,  no.  And  wasn't  it  provi 
dential  now  that  he  come  along  jist  when  he  did,  and 
you  worried  out  o'  your  life  and  soul  with  that  old 
Jerusalem  cricket,  Sister — Sister-rah —  Oh,  what's 
her  name  now?  " 

"  Sister  Pennypiece." 


54  FOLKS    BACK    HOME 

"  I  do'  know  whatever  possessed  you  to  go  and 
invite  her  to  stay  with  you  a  few  days  after  camp 
meetin'  when  you  might  'a'  knowed  she  was  jist  one 
o'  them  deadbeats  and  lookin'  for  somebody  that 
she  could  sponge  off  of  and  stay  the  whole  fall  and 
winter.  And  thinks  I:  'There's  a  good  chance  o' 
helpin'  her  out  and  me,  too,'  so  I  says  to  this  Mr. 

,  I  says  to  him:  'You  can  get  a  room,  like 

enough,  at  S'repty  Downey's,'  I  says,  and  he  looked 
at  me  so  funny.  And  he  went  right  over  and  you 
rented  the  room  to  him.  I  thought  that  was  too 
killin'.  I  bet  she  jist  raved  and  caved  when  she  come 
back  and  found  out." 

"Well,  no.  She  didn't,  but  Aunt  Betty  Mooney 
that  was  with  her " 

"  There's  a  pair  of  'em  for  you." 

"  Aunt  Betty  about  raised  the  roof.  She  talked 
awful  to  me.  Said  it  was  easy  to  see  what  I  was  up 
to." 

"She  didn't!" 

"  Oh,  yes,  she  did.  She  told  me  I  was  one  of  them 
that  thinks  it  ain't  ever  too  late  to  get  a  beau " 

"Oh,  good  land!  You!" 

"  I  felt  awful,  and  if  he  hadn't  paid  me  in  advance 
I  don't  know  but  I'd  have " 

"  Now,  don't  you  go  and  be  foolish.  Why,  my 
grief!  Here  you've  lived  here  all  your  life  till  you're 
gray  headed  and  not  a  word  against  you  in  any 


AN  INDIAN  SUMMER  LOVE  STORY     55 

shape,  manner,  or  form,  and  people  thinks  the  world 
and  all  of  you.  Don't  you  s'pose  folks  has  got  some 
sense?" 

"  Yes,  but  you  know  what  Aunt  Betty  and  Sister 
Pennypiece  are  to  talk." 

"And  don't  everybody  know  that?  And  this  Mr. 
Fusell " 

"  Mr.  Frazee." 

"  Yes.  He's  an  old  man,  too,  ain't  he?  " 

"  Well,  I  don't  know  as  you'd  call  him  old." 

"  He's  about  your  age,  ain't  he?  " 

"  Yes,  I  suppose  so,  but  you  don't  think  I'm  old, 
do  you?  " 

"  Well,  you're  no  spring  chicken,  S'repty;  but  I 
will  say  that  for  a  woman  o'  your  age,  you're  mighty 
trim  and  well  preserved.  It's  a  pity  you  ever  got 
that  notion  into  your  head  about  bein'  engaged  to 
Sam  Coulter.  You  might  'a'  got  married  a  dozen 
times  over  and  not  be  left  alone  the  way  you  was 
when  your  pa  died.  I  expect  that  was  more'n  half 
the  reason  you  had  that  old  Jerusalem  cricket  come 
up  and  stay  with  you,  bein'  so  lonesome.  I  blame 
your  pa  for  breakin'  it  off  with  Sam  in  the  first 
place." 

"  No,  now  that  was  my  fault.  I  oughtn't  to  have 
quarreled  with  him  about  Sallie  Mumma.  Then  he 
wouldn't  have  enlisted." 

"  Well,  we  won't  talk  about  that  now.  Anybody 


56  FOLKS    BACK    HOME 

that  knows  how  you  could  have  had  your  pick  o'  the 
men  when  you  was  young  ain't  goin'  to  believe 
you're  after  'em  now.  He  don't  bother  you  none, 
does  he?  Comin'  in  and  settin',  I  mean." 

"Who?  Mr.  Frazee?" 

"  Urn." 

"  Oh,  no.  Not  at  all." 

"Well,  then,  why  should  you  fret?" 

"  I  don't  know  as  I  do  fret.  But  here  lately  every 
Wednesday  evening  when  I  come  out  of  prayer 
meeting,  he's  waiting  to  see  me  home.  He  said  it 
didn't  look  right  to  him  to  see  a  lady  alone  on  the 
street  at  night  and " 

"  Urn,"  assented  Mrs.  Parker.  "  I  say  so,  too." 

"  And  if  I  didn't  have  any  other  company  and 
didn't  object  he  had  just  as  lives  come  by  for  me 
as  not.  I  told  him  I  was  used  to  it.  Pa  never  would 
go  with  me,  you  know.  But  he  said  it  wasn't  any 
bother  and  he  would  unless  I  objected,  and  I  couldn't 
very  well  say  I  objected,  but " 

"  But  what?  " 

"  Well,  I  didn't  want  people  to  think  he  was  going 
with  me." 

"  And  wouldn't  it  be  terrible  if  they  did!  Wouldn't 
it  be  just  terrible!  Now  look  here,  S'repty,  if  you 
want  to  know,  I  think  it's  all  foolishness  for  you  to 
think  you  dassen't  look  at  a  man  just  because  Sam 
Coulter  never  come  back  from  the  war.  I'd  put  on 


AN  INDIAN  SUMMER  LOVE  STORY  57 
mournin'  for  him  and  be  done  with  it  and  not  punish 
myself  the  way  you  do." 

Sarepta  shook  her  head. 

"  If  people  should  say  that  I  was  going  with  Mr. 
Frazee  I'd  have  to  tell  him  to  go.  I  couldn't  stand 
it.  I'd  hate  awful  to  tell  him  to  go,  but  that's  just 
what  I'd  have  to  do  if — people  said  that." 

"  Now  don't  you  worry.  They  won't  nobody  talk 
about  you  unless  it  is  old  Aunt  Betty  and  the  Jeru 
salem  cricket,  and  if  they  do,  why  people  won't  pay 
one  bit  of  attention.  They'll  jist  consider  the  source." 

And  this  was  exactly  what  people  did. 

The  romantic  story  of  Sarepta  Downey  was  one 
of  the  traditions  of  Minuca  Center.  The  little  old 
maid  with  the  glow  in  her  cheeks,  like  the  Indian 
summer  of  a  girl's  blush,  would  have  been  dear  to 
all  because  of  her  devotion  to  the  memory  of  her 
old  sweetheart  even  if  she  hadn't  been  the  good  soul 
she  was. 

Old  Aaron  Downey  was  a  quarrelsome  old  man. 
In  war  time  he  was  a  Vallandigham  Democrat,  as 
much  to  be  contrary  as  anything,  and  when  Sarepta 
became  engaged  to  Sam  Coulter,  the  boy  old  Adam 
Coulter  took  to  raise,  who  lived  out  on  the  Pharis- 
burg  road  next  to  Mumma's  and  was  a  black  Aboli 
tionist,  he  fairly  pawed  up  the  ground.  Old  man 
Coulter  didn't  like  it  either.  He  wanted  Sam  to  have 
Sallie  Mumma,  and  when  Sam,  to  please  him,  took 


58  FOLKS    BACK    HOME 

Sallie  to  a  couple  of  places,  old  Aaron  taunted  Sa- 
repta  so  that  in  a  passion  of  jealousy  she  quarreled 
with  Sam.  She  had  no  idea  he  would  take  it  to  heart, 
but  he  did,  and  the  next  thing  was,  he  had  enlisted 
and  gone  to  Camp  Chase. 

Pa  Downey  strictly  forbade  her  to  write  the 
scratch  of  a  pen  to  any  "  Lincoln  hireling,"  and  if 
Sam  ever  wrote  to  her  she  never  got  the  letter.  No 
body  would  have  put  it  past  Aaron  Downey  to  have 
kept  the  letters  from  her,  but  if  Sarepta  thought  so 
she  never  accused  her  father  of  it.  She  blamed  her 
self  for  it  all.  She  knew  Sam  liked  her  and  was  en 
gaged  to  her,  as  witness  the  little  set  ring  he  had 
given  her,  which  she  had  worn  to  paper  thinness. 
She  knew  he  didn't  care  for  Sallie  Mumma.  When 
he  came  back  she  was  going  to  take  all  the  blame 
on  herself.  But  he  didn't  come  back.  She  had  not 
even  the  melancholy  satisfaction  of  knowing  that  he 
was  dead.  Among  her  scanty  treasures,  an  old  da 
guerreotype  of  Sam  in  a  square  case  lined  with  red 
velvet,  a  dried  flower  he  had  picked  for  her,  and 
a  basket  he  had  whittled  out  of  a  peach  stone, 
there  was  a  frayed  and  yellow  clipping  from 
the  Weekly  Examiner  giving  the  list  of  casualties 
among  the  Logan  County  boys  in  one  of  the  skir 
mishes  before  Richmond.  One  item  was:  "  Private 
Samuel  Coulter,  missing."  That  was  all.  The  rest 
was  silence. 


AN  INDIAN  SUMMER  LOVE  STORY     59 

But  though  Sam  never  came  back,  she  still  con 
sidered  herself  engaged  to  him.  Fellows  would  start 
in  to  keep  company  with  her,  well-off  fellows,  too, 
but  she  gave  them  to  understand  that  she  considered 
herself  engaged  to  Sam  Coulter,  and  after  a  while 
they  would  stop  going  with  her. 

"  You  act  like  a  fool,  S'repty,"  her  father  would 
snarl  at  her,  "  a  regular,  cussed  fool.  Who  was  he, 
anyhow,  to  make  so  much  fuss  about?  Old  Ad.  Coul 
ter's  bound  boy.  Lord  knows  what  kind  o'  low  trash 
he  come  from." 

But  with  the  obstinacy  of  the  timid  she  held  her 
course.  It  was  no  more  than  right  that  she  should 
do  as  she  did  after  the  way  she  had  treated  Sam. 
Almost  the  last  thing  her  father  had  said  to  her 
was  that  she  had  been  a  "  cussed  fool  "  to  stay  single 
when  she  had  so  many  chances  to  marry  and  do  well. 
He  was  going  to  die  and  she'd  be  all  alone  in  the 
world,  and  whose  fault  was  it?  Why,  hers,  because 
she  had  been  such  a  "  cussed  fool." 

But  she  tended  him  lovingly  and  mourned  him 
sincerely  and  even  missed  him  when  he  was  gone. 
Even  his  rasping  voice  was  good  to  hear.  It  was  the 
voice  of  a  man,  and  man  is  the  fountain  of  authority. 
Though  he  was  old  and  feeble,  she  did  not  know 
what  it  was  to  be  afraid  when  she  padlocked  the  cel 
lar  door  at  night  and  shut  the  shutters  and  locked 
up  the  house. 


60  FOLKS    BACK    HOME 

This  Sister  Pennypiece  that  had  fastened  herself 
on  Sarepta  at  the  Urbana  camp  meeting  and  had 
proved  such  a  bore  that  she  was  glad  to  get  her  out, 
was  almost  worse  than  nobody  at  all.  For  she  used 
to  sit  and  tell  the  most  awful  tales  of  people  living 
alone  and  being  found  in  the  morning  with  their 
throats  cut,  and  then  she  would  grab  Sarepta  and 
whisper:  "  Sh!  Did  you  hear  that?  "  After  a  long  and 
breathless  pause  she  would  whisper:  "  It  sounded 
like  somebody  walkin'  around  upstairs." 

Since  this  Mr.  Frazee  had  come  to  take  Sister 
Pennypiece's  room  she  had  not  felt  afraid  at  all.  If 
burglars  got  in  there  was  a  man  in  the  house,  some 
body  that  could  attend  to  their  case.  But  if  people 
were  going  to  talk  about  it,  she  would  have  to  tell 
him  to  go. 

Now  there  is  no  denying  that  Aunt  Betty  Mooney 
did  go  around  town  declaring  that  it  was  scandalous, 
simply  scandalous,  for  Sarepta  Downey,  a  member 
of  Center  Street  M.  E.,  to  be  living  alone  in  the 
house  with  a  man  and  that  man  beauing  her  around. 
It  ought  to  be  brought  up  before  the  officiary  and 
she  ought  to  be  rebuked.  And  that  man  Frazee,  pub 
lic  opinion  ought  to  attend  to  him.  Who  was  he, 
anyhow?  Where'd  he  come  from?  What  was  he 
after?  Why  didn't  he  go  to  work  or  do  something, 
like  he'd  ought  to?  Wasn't  there  anybody  had  spunk 
enough  to  up  and  ask  him? 


AN  INDIAN  SUMMER  LOVE  STORY     61 

"  I  jox  I  d'know,  Aunt  Betty,"  said  Otho  Littell. 
"  Seems  not.  Why  don't  you?  " 

"  Yes,  and  have  him  tell  me  to  go  'long  about  my 
business.  I  see  myself  talkin'  to  that  man.  The  looks 
of  him  is  enough  for  me." 

"  Aw,  now,  Aunt  Betty,  he's  a  very  nice-lookin' 
man,  with  that  big  beard  o'  his,  tall  and  not  too 
fleshy,  and  straight  as  a  candle.  'Tain't  often  you 
see  a  man  like  that  when  he's  gittin'  gray." 

"  Struttin'  along  the  street,  as  if  he  owned  it,  and 
puffin'  his  filthy  tobacco  smoke  in  people's  faces. 
Well,  mebby  not  right  in  their  faces,  but  poisonin' 
the  very  air  they  breathe.  Nobody  can  be  a  pure  man 
and  use  tobacco.  Now  that's  so,  Brother  Littell. 
You  know  what  the  Scripture  says  about  layin'  aside 
all  filthiness  and  superfluity  of  naughtiness.  Tobacco 
wasn't  invented  in  them  days,  I  know,  but  if  that 
ain't  it  to  a  t-y,  ty,  then  I  don't  want  a  cent  and 
you  needn't  think  I  don't  see  you  tryin'  to  hide  that 
there  quid  o'  tobacco  in  your  cheek,  Brother  Lit 
tell,  because  I  do,  and  the  Lord  sees  it  too,  and, 
come  Judgment  Day,  you'll  hear  from  Him,  now, 
sure's  you're  a  foot  high." 

"  All  right,  Aunt  Betty.  Now  what  else  was  it  you 
wanted  to-day?  Tea,  sugar,  coffee,  canned  peaches — 
we  got  some  nice  canned  corn." 

"  Well,  you  might  send  me  up  a  can  o'  corn  and 
about  three  pounds  o'  sugar  and  a  quarter  of  a 


62  FOLKS    BACK    HOME 

pound  o'  tea,  and  if  the  officiary  don't  do  nothin' 
about  S'repty  and  that  man  Frazee —  How  would 
you  like  some  dried  beef,  Sister  Pennypiece?  About 
half  a  pound,  Otho.  Thin,  now.  Jist  as  thin  as  you 
can —  Why,  then,  the  citizens  had  ought  to  take  'em 
in  hand." 

Sister  Pennypiece  apparently  tried  to  check  the 
fury  of  Aunt  Betty's  accusations,  but  it  was  as  Clar 
ence  Bowersox,  Mr.  Littell's  clerk,  said  after  the 
two  had  gone  out:  "And  all  the  time,  all  the  time, 
mind  you,  a-gittin'  in  her  mean  little  insinuendos." 

"  Oh,  she's  got  it  in  for  S'repty,  no  two  ways 
about  that,"  said  Mr.  Littell.  "  I  jox!  It  ain't  no 
snap  to  live  at  Aunt  Betty's,  even  if  you  do  gitch 
board  for  nothin'.  She  had  it  easy  at  S'repty's. 
They  tell  me  she  wouldn't  even  make  her  own  bed. 
I  bet  old  Aunt  Betty  makes  her  stand  around.  I 
jox!" 

Part  of  Aunt  Betty's  animosity  to  Frazee  was  due 
to  the  fact  that  nobody  had  found  out  much  about 
him,  and  she  resented  it.  People  that  were  so  still 
about  themselves  must  be  up  to  some  devilment  or 
other.  But  while  Minuca  Center  was  as  curious  as 
she,  there  was  something  about  Frazee  that  forbade 
catechising.  From  his  ordering  Coban  coffee;  from 
his  getting  letters  with  a  long-tailed  bird  on  the 
postage  stamps,  and  from  his  talking  Spanish  with 
old  man  Sanchez,  the  cigar-maker,  they  inferred  that 


AN  INDIAN  SUMMER  LOVE  STORY  63 
he  must  have  lived  in  Mexico  or  South  America  or 
some  such  place. 

Sarepta  was  finding  out  more  about  him  than  any 
body,  but  so  fearful  was  she  that  folks  would  think 
she  was  going  with  him  that  she  never  mentioned 
his  name,  but  kept  all  these  things  in  her  heart. 

Coming  home  from  prayer  meeting  began  to  be 
an  event  she  looked  forward  to  all  week.  She  had 
always  liked  geography,  and  it  was  most  interesting 
to  talk  with  Mr.  Frazee,  who  had  lived  where  they 
had  palm  trees  and  bananas  and  vanilla  and  all  that. 
He  had  had  a  coffee  plantation  in  San  Rafael,  prov 
ince  of  Coban,  Guatemala,  and  he  told  her  all  about 
raising  coffee;  how  they  had  to  be  so  careful  of  the 
young  plants  and  shade  them  with  bananas;  how  the 
coffee  berry  was  something  like  a  cherry,  only  in 
stead  of  having  a  pit  it  had  these  two  seeds.  He 
told  her  about  the  people  down  there  and  how  the 
young  fellows  courted  the  girls  and  never  got  a 
chance  to  speak  to  them.  He  told  her  about  bull 
fights  and  all  such,  but  most  interesting  of  all,  he 
told  her  how  he  had  come  to  go  there  right  after 
the  War  of  the  Rebellion,  when  he  was  just  a  boy, 
as  you  might  say,  and  with  all  a  boy's  love  of  the 
adventurous  life  whetted,  not  satiated,  with  the  few 
months'  soldiering  he  had  had;  how  sick  he  was  of 
it  in  a  little  while,  and  how  he  wanted  to  go  back 
home,  only  he  couldn't,  because  he  didn't  have  the 


64  FOLKS    BACK    HOME 

money,  and  then  when  he  did  get  the  money,  how 
he  had  become  a  little  better  used  to  it  and,  finding 
a  good  opportunity  for  investment,  he  had  started 
in  to  raise  coffee.  He  had  done  pretty  well,  he  didn't 
say  how  well,  but  pretty  well.  And  then  a  man  came 
along  and  offered  him  his  price,  or  near  about,  and 
he  felt  a  great  longing  to  get  back  to  God's  coun 
try.  Sometimes  he  thought  he  ought  never  to  have 
left  it.  He  ought  to  have  gone  back  North  after  the 
war  was  over. 

"And  why  didn't  you?" 

"  Oh,  well,  all  my  folks  were  dead,  and  there  was 
nobody  that  cared  for  me,  so  I  thought." 

They  walked  on  and  presently  Frazee  broke  out 
with: 

"  I'm  just  about  wild  to  see  snow,  snow  on  the 
ground,  snow  that  you  can  go  sleighing  on.  I  used 
to  dream  about  snow.  First  good  snowstorm  that 
comes  along,  do  you  know  what  I'm  going  to  do? 
I'm  going  to  have  a  sleigh  ride  and  I'm  going  to 
take  you  with  me,  that  is,  if  you'll  go.  Will  you?  " 

"  Why,  I  should  be  pleased  to  accept  your  kind 
invitation,"  she  answered  with  old-fashioned  polite 
ness. 

And  then  she  remembered  that  she  had  not  been 
sleigh  riding  since  the  time  she  and  Sam  Coulter 
had  the  spat  about  Sallie  Mumma.  The  more  she 
thought  about  it  the  more  she  felt  that  she  ought 


AN  INDIAN  SUMMER  LOVE  STORY     65 

not  to  go.  It  worried  her  so  that  the  next  day  she 
waylaid  Frazee  in  the  hall  to  tell  him  so. 

"  Mr.  Frazee,"  she  said,  and  twisted  the  little  old- 
fashioned  ring  on  her  finger,  as  she  did  when  nerv 
ous,  "  I  don't  know  as  it  would  be  right  for  me  to 
go  sleigh  riding  as  I  told  you  I  would.  I  thank  you 
for  your  kind  invitation,  but " 

"Not  right?" 

"  Well,  of  course  it  wouldn't  be  wrong  exactly,  but 
— now,  I  don't  want  you  to  think  that  I've  got  any 
thing  against  you,  for  I  haven't.  I  don't  know  as 
there's  anybody  I  like  better — of  course,  you  know, 
I  don't  mean  in  that  way."  She  blushed  to  think  how 
clumsily  she  was  doing  it. 

He  seemed  to  leap  at  an  opportunity. 

"  And  don't  you  think  you  could  like  me  in  that 
way?  "  he  demanded,  bending  over  her  and  look 
ing  into  her  eyes.  She  blushed  still  deeper  and 
dropped  her  lids.  "  Perhaps  I  go  about  it  all  too 
bluntly,  but  this  is  Indian  summer  with  you  and  me. 
We  have  no  time  to  lose  in  our  love  making.  Don't 
you  think,  from  what  you  have  seen  of  me,  that  you 
could  l  like  me  in  that  way  '  enough  " — he  swallowed 
— "  enough  to  marry  me?  " 

She  winced  and  caught  her  breath  with  a  sob. 

"Oh!"  she  quavered,  "I  couldn't!  I  couldn't!  It 
wouldn't  be  right.  I  do  esteem  you.  I  do  1-like 
you  as  well  as  anybody  I  ever  saw,  I  don't  know 


66  FOLKS    BACK    HOME 

but  better.  But  it  wouldn't  be  right."  Her  voice 
strengthened  as  she  got  on  familiar  ground.  "  I  am 
engaged  to  Mr.  Sam  Coulter." 

"  Coulter?  " 

"  He  was  a  young  man  I  kept  company  with,  and 
he  went  and  enlisted  in  the  war,  and  I  am  waiting 
for  him  to  come  back." 

"  Why,  my  dear,  that's  forty  years  ago." 

"  No.  Only  thirty-eight.  It  was  in  the  fall  of  '64 
he  enlisted.  But  that's  no  difference.  He  didn't  break 
the  engagement  and  I  mustn't.  As  long  as  I  don't 
know  he's  dead  or  married  to  some  other  girl  it 
wouldn't  be  right  for  me  to  have  anybody  else,  no 
matter  how  much  I  liked  him.  I  expect  you  think 
it's  kind  of  foolish  in  me,"  she  added  piteously. 

"  No,  no.  Not  at  all.  This  man  that  you  speak 
of " 

"Mr.  Coulter?" 

"  Yes.  Hasn't  he  written  to  you  in  all  these 
years?  " 

"  That  don't  make  any  difference.  I  couldn't  have 
anybody  else  unless  he  broke  the  engagement  or — 
died." 

"  And  this  is  the  ring  he  gave  you?  "  he  asked, 
taking  her  hand  gently. 

"  Yes,"  she  answered.  "  It's  all  worn  thin  now,  but 
it  was  a  right  pretty  ring  when  he  gave  it  to  me.  I've 
never  taken  it  off  only  when  I  washed  my  hands, 


AN  INDIAN  SUMMER  LOVE  STORY     67 

and  one  time  I  lost  it  for  pretty  near  a  week 
and " 

She  broke  off  her  prattle  in  surprise.  He  raised 
her  hand  to  his  lips  and  kissed  it.  It  was  an  un 
familiar  caress. 

" '  I  have  not  known  such  faith,'  "  he  quoted. 
"  *  No,  not  in  Israel.' '  Then,  after  a  moment,  he 
said:  "But  what  if  he's  dead?" 

She  shook  her  head. 

"  If  I  should  prove  it  to  you  that  he  was  dead, 
would  that " 

"  How  could  you  prove  it  now?  "  she  asked. 

"  Yes,  that's  so.  It's  a  long  time  ago." 

He  forbore  to  press  home  the  point  he  might  have 
made  that  she  had  tacitly  confessed  that  in  her  heart 
she  knew  her  lover  was  long  since  dead,  and  that 
this  pretended  waiting  for  him  was  the  fiction  with 
which  she  concealed  even  from  herself  that  she  was 
doing  penance  for  a  girlish  fault,  her  hasty  words 
spoken  a  generation  ago.  She  thanked  him  for  it 
inwardly. 

4  Yes,"  she  echoed,  and  drew  a  long,  quivering 
sigh.  "  It's  a  long  time  ago."  And  just  that  tender 
sadness  that  we  feel  whenever  we  think  of  days  gone 
by  turned  the  pent-up  tide  of  emotion  into  the  chan 
nel  of  tears.  She  fled  from  him  into  her  own  rooms. 
She  could  not  bear  that  he  should  see  her  cry. 

She  heard  him  go  out  a  little  later.  When  she  had 


68  FOLKS    BACK   HOME 

recovered  herself  somewhat  she  determined  that  she 
must  tell  him  when  he  came  in  again  that  it  wouldn't 
do  for  him  to  stay  in  the  house.  She  knew  that  he 
was  honorable  and  all  that,  but  now  that  he  had  be 
come  a  suitor — why,  it  wouldn't  do,  and  that  was 
all  there  was  about  it.  It  would  be  terrible  to  have 
to  tell  him.  She  might  better  have  had  Sister  Penny- 
piece  stay  on.  And  yet,  the  verses  came  into  her 
mind: 

'Twere  better  to  have  loved  and  lost 

Than  never  to  have  loved  at  all. 

But  something  in  her  resented  that.  You  couldn't 
say  that  she  had  "  never  loved  at  all  "  before  he 
came.  She  had  loved  Sam  Coulter,  hadn't  she?  Yes, 
and  loved  him  still.  And  she  ought  not  to  say  that 
she  loved  Mr.  Frazee  as  long  as  she  was  engaged 
to  Sam  Coulter.  But  that  was  a  girl's  love,  a  jealous, 
flaming  love,  while  this  was  calmer,  more  placid, 
more  beautiful,  as  Indian  summer  is  more  beautiful 
than  it  is  in  August. 

No,  no.  She  must  not  think  of  loving  him.  He 
ought  to  look  for  somebody  else,  some  younger 
woman.  He  might  just  as  well  as  not,  he  being  right 
in  the  prime  of  life,  as  you  might  say.  She  tried  to 
think  who  would  do  for  him,  but  it  horrified  her 
to  find  how  to  think  of  him  as  married  to  another 
woman  was  like  a  knife  struck  into  her  heart.  If  it 
was  going  to  be  like  that,  Mr.  Frazee  would  cer- 


AN  INDIAN  SUMMER  LOVE  STORY     69 

tainly  have  to  go.  She  was  engaged  to  Sam  Coulter. 
She  must  remember  that.  And  yet,  for  the  first  time, 
she  almost  regretted  that  vestal  troth  of  hers. 

She  did  not  hear  him  come  in  that  night.  She  did 
not  hear  him  go  out  in  the  morning.  She  waited 
till  a  reasonable  hour  and  then,  since  the  matter  was 
so  instant,  she  nerved  herself  to  go  up  and  knock 
upon  his  door.  There  was  no  response.  A  cold  fear 
came  over  her.  If  he  should  have  died  in  the  night! 
To  be  a  second  time  bereaved  of — yes,  of  a  lover. 
She  tried  the  door.  It  opened.  The  bed  had  not  been 
slept  in. 

He  did  not  return  that  day.  The  house  was  lonely 
that  night,  and  she  dared  not  go  to  a  neighbor's  or 
have  a  neighbor  in.  It  was  important  that  she  should 
speak  to  him  the  very  first  opportunity.  It  was  very 
lonely.  Sarepta  quaked  at  every  rattle  of  the  win 
dow.  Every  step  she  hearkened  to  and  every  step 
passed  on.  The  next  day  and  the  next  night  and  still 
no  sign  of  him.  Stepping  over  to  Mrs.  Parker's  for 
news,  she  encountered  that  lady  stepping  over  to 
her  house  for  news.  Why  had  not  Mr.  Frazee  come 
to  his  meals?  Sarepta  plainly  showed  anxiety  and 
more,  which  Mrs.  Parker  notified  to  all  and  several 
she  knew. 

As  Frazee's  absence  lengthened  into  a  week  and 
then  into  a  fortnight,  the  whole  town,  instructed 
by  Mrs.  Parker,  observed  and  commented  upon  Sa- 


70  FOLKS    BACK    HOME 

repta's  appearance,  not  wholly  without  amusement, 
since  everybody  else's  love  affair  is  of  necessity 
comic,  and  yet  not  wholly  without  pity  either.  Ex 
cept,  of  course,  with  Aunt  Betty  Mooney  and  Sister 
Pennypiece.  This  latter  lady  said,  in  a  voice  like  cold 
cream,  that  she  hoped  this  would  be  a  lesson  to  dear 
Sister  Downey  and  teach  her  to  set  her  affections 
on  things  above — not  on  things  on  the  earth. 

"I  jox!"  said  Otho  Littell.  "  Whadda  you  think 
o'  that?  Ain't  that  gall  for  you!" 

But  a  day  came  whereon  Frazee  did  return,  and 
Sarepta's  joy  at  seeing  him  was  dashed  with  bitter 
ness  as  she  thought  of  what  she  had  to  say  to  him. 
She  stammered  out  a  beginning,  but  he  hushed  her 
with : 

"  Wait.  Wait  till  to-night.  I  have  invited  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Longenecker  over  and  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Lester 
Pettitt.  They're  your  most  intimate  friends.  I  want 
them  to  be  here.  I  have  a  surprise  for  you." 

Sarepta  received  her  pastor  and  his  wife  with 
a  nervousness  that  the  commonplaces  about  the 
weather  did  not  assuage. 

"  Mr.  Frazee'll  be  down  in  a  minute,"  she  flut 
tered.  "  He  said  for  me  to  entertain  you  till  he 
came." 

"  He's  been  away,  I  believe,"  said  Mrs.  Longe 
necker,  by  way  of  making  conversation. 

"  Yes,  he  just  got  back  this  afternoon." 


AN  INDIAN  SUMMER  LOVE  STORY     71 

They  rocked  in  uneasy  silence  for  some  minutes. 
Then  Sarepta  began: 

"  Brother  Longenecker,  I  just  wish't  you'd  tell 
me  what  I  ought  to  do.  Yes,  and  you,  too,  Sister 
Longenecker.  You  were  so  good  to  me  when  pa 
died.  I've  been  going  to  ask  you  a  dozen  times,  but 
I  couldn't  quite  spunk  up  to  it." 

She  was  interrupted  by  the  doorbell  announcing 
the  Pettitts.  During  the  amenities  convention  has 
prescribed,  Sarepta  and  the  Longeneckers  visibly 
fidgeted. 

"  Would  you  wish  to  discuss  that  little  matter  in 
private,  Sister  Downey? "  at  length  inquired  the 
minister. 

"  No,"  sighed  Sarepta.  "  Not  particularly.  I 
wouldn't  want  the  whole  town  to  know  it,  but  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Pettitt  here,  they're  just  like  kinfolks  to 
me,  and  I  don't  know  but  more  so.  It's  this  way: 
Mr.  Frazee  wants  me  to  marry  him." 

She  looked  up,  expecting  to  find  shocked  surprise 
upon  their  countenances,  but  they  bore  the  news 
with  resignation. 

"  Well? "  inquired  Brother  Longenecker,  hard 
ened  by  his  calling  to  matrimony  as  butchers  are  to 
bloodshed. 

"  Well,  I  wanted  to  know  if  you  thought  it  would 
be  right  for  me  to  have  him." 

"  My  dear  sister,"  said  the  minister,  "  that's  for 


72  FOLKS    BACK    HOME 

you  to  say,  not  me.  He  seems  to  be  a  very  nice  man, 
what  I've  seen  of  him,  but  it's  you  that  must  be 
suited.  Do  you  love  him?  " 

"  Well,  but  that  ain't  it.  I " 

"  Well,  but  I  think  that  is  exactly  it." 

Mrs.  Longenecker  compressed  her  lips  and  sol 
emnly  nodded,  assenting  to  her  husband's  views. 

"  No,  I  gave  Mr.  Coulter  my  promise  I'd  marry 
him,  and  he  hasn't  let  me  off  or  broke  the  engage 
ment.  They  tell  me  he  is  dead,  but  supposing  he  ain't 
and  he  should  ever  come  back,  ain't  I  bound  to  wait 
for  him?  " 

"  Supposing  it  was  proved  to  you  that  he  is  dead, 
do  you  like  Mr.  Frazee  well  enough  to  marry  him?  " 

"  I  don't  know  but  I  do.  Yes,  yes,  I  do  know  that 
I  do.  But  my  promise  to  Sam?  " 

"  Then  it's  the  vow  that  keeps  you  back.  It  is  a 
matter  of  conscience  with  you,  then?  " 

"  Yes,  I  s'pose  it  is." 

"  A  vow  whose  result  is  for  good  and  not  for  evil 
is  a  vow  to  be  kept,  but  a  vow  to  punish  yourself, 
and  not  yourself  alone  but  another,  cannot  bind  be 
cause  it  is — it  is — "  The  minister  hesitated. 

"  Void  as  against  public  policy,"  prompted  Lester 
Pettitt. 

"  Exactly.  Now,  if  you  love  Mr.  Frazee " 

"  I  do,  I  do,"  burst  out  Sarepta,  "  but  I  can't  bear 
to  give  up  Sam.  I've  been  engaged  to  him  so  long. 


AN  INDIAN  SUMMER  LOVE   STORY     73 

Oh,  why  did  I  ever  talk  so  to  him?  Why  did  I  drive 
him  away?"  she  cried  hysterically.  "  O  Sam!  Sam! 
Come  back  to  me!  Tell  me  whether  you're  alive  or 
dead!" 

"  There,  there,  Sarepta,"  soothed  Mrs.  Pettitt.  "  I 
wouldn't  take  on  so.  I  don't  know  as  I  ever  saw  you 
so  excited.  You  must  be  calm." 

"  I'll  try,"  she  whimpered,  and  then  suddenly 
broke  out  with:  "  Why  can't  they  come  back  and  tell 
us?  Why  can't  they?  Why  can't  they?  " 

The  door  opened. 

Sarepta  screamed  and  stared  with  bulging  eyes. 
There  stood  a  soldier  in  the  cape  overcoat  and 
baggy  forage  cap  of  the  period  of  the  Civil  War.  His 
pale,  smooth-shaven  visage  smiled  faintly  at  her.  She 
staggered  to  her  feet,  deathly  white.  The  figure  held 
out  its  arms. 

"  Sam!  "  she  cried  with  a  choking  gasp,  and  would 
have  fallen  but  Mrs.  Pettitt  caught  her. 

"  Lie  right  flat  down  on  the  floor,"  she  com 
manded,  "  that's  the  best  way.  It's  the  most  awful 
sickening  feeling  when  you're  going  to  faint.  Lie 
right  flat  down,  dear,  and  you'll  soon  be  over  it.  My 
goodness,  Mr.  Frazee,  you  scared  me,  too,  for  all  I 
knew  just  what  was  coming.  I  never  would  have 
known  you  with  your  beard  off." 

"  Sam!  "  whispered  Sarepta. 

"  Yes,  Sam,"  said  Frazee,  kneeling  beside  her  and 


74  FOLKS    BACK    HOME 

taking  the  hand  that  wore  the  little  old  set  ring.  "  I 
knew  you  the  minute  I  saw  you,  but  when  you  didn't 
recognize  me  I  thought  I'd  court  you  all  over  again 
and  see  if  you  could  love  me  as  myself  and  not 
as  the  memory  of  your  old  sweetheart.  I  have 
come  back.  Sam  Coulter  has  come  back  to  claim 
you." 

"  But,  Mr.  Frazee — "  began  Sarepta. 

"  Frazee  is  my  true  and  legal  name.  Adam  Coul 
ter  only  brought  me  up.  I  have  come  back  to  claim 
you.  Will  you  have  me,  after  all?  " 

She  reached  her  arms  around  his  neck  and  kissed 
him. 

"  Well — er — er,"  Mr.  Longenecker  began,  wiping 
his  glasses  and  then  his  eyes.  "  Brother  Frazee,  I 
would  suggest  that  if  you — er — had  a  license  now 
we  might — er — go  ahead,  as  it  were." 

Frazee  fumbled  in  the  pockets  of  the  overcoat. 

"  Here  are  the  proofs  that  I  was  born  Frazee. 
Here's  my  honorable  discharge  from  the  army.  Here 
is  a  certificate  from  the  jefe  politico  of  San  Rafael, 
province  of  Coban,  Guatemala,  that  I  am  still  a 
bachelor — that's  why  I  was  so  long  away — and,  ah, 
yes,  here  it  is — here  is  a  license  from  the  county 
clerk  of  Logan  County " 

"  Sister  Pettitt,  will  you  stand  over  there?  And 
Brother  Pettitt,  you  stand  right  here." 

"What!  Get  married  right  now?"  cried  Sarepta, 


AN  INDIAN  SUMMER  LOVE  STORY     75 

scrambling  to  her  feet.  "  Why,  we'll  have  to  wait  till 
I  can  get  my  wedding  things  ready!  " 

"  Not  a  minute  longer,  deary,"  said  Frazee,  tak 
ing  her  hand.  "  It  is  Indian  summer  with  us.  We  have 
waited  too  long  already." 


THE   SEVENTH   TRUMPET 

THAT  the  very  existence  of  the  Second  Pres 
byterian  Church  of  Minuca  Center,  as  a 
corporate  body,  was  soon  to  come  to  an 
end  was  a  foreboding  that  the  elders,  deacons,  and 
trustees  were  no  longer  able  to  keep  either  from  or 
to  themselves.  There  were  not  too  many  Presby 
terians  in  the  Center,  anyhow,  and  some  of  the 
young  people  openly  said  it  was  just  foolishness  to 
keep  up  two  churches.  They  had  forgotten,  if  they 
ever  knew,  what  it  was  that  made  the  Second  Church 
split  off  from  the  First.  They  liked  to  hear  Mr.  Hall, 
the  pastor  of  the  First  Church,  preach,  and  here 
lately  nearly  all  of  those  who  had  no  battleground  to 
look  back  upon,  and  those,  too,  in  whose  memories 
that  battleground  had  been  grassed  over,  had  taken 
to  going  to  the  First  Church  Sunday  evenings, 
where  they  had  an  organ  and  a  choir.  John  Snod- 
grass,  the  precentor  of  the  Second,  with  his  tuning 
fork  and  his  "  down,  left,  right,  up,"  was  very  much 
opposed  to  such  heathenish  carryings  on  in  the 
house  of  God;  it  was  too  much  like  the  Catholics, 
and  he  had  heard  that  the  doctrine  was  none  too 

76 


THE    SEVENTH    TRUMPET  77 

scriptural;  "  and  yit,"  he  admitted,  scratching  his 
chin  and  screwing  up  his  face,  "  and  yit  they  is  sech 
a  thing  as  bein'  a  leetle  mite  too  scriptural."  The  men 
of  the  congregation  thought  so,  too,  but  the  women 
folks,  trained  for  centuries  to  think  no  evil  of  the 
reverend  clergy,  said:  "  Well,  I  believe  Mr.  Bailey  is 
a  good  man,  and  there  is  a  great  deal  in  his  sermons 
that  it'd  be  well  if  we'd  all  take  to  heart."  Whereat 
the  men,  wise  in  their  day  and  generation,  simply 
shifted  their  chewing  tobacco  to  the  other  cheek,  and 
looked  away  off  yonder  somewhere. 

And  then  came  the  famous  sermon  on  the  man 
found  picking  up  sticks  on  the  Sabbath  day. 

"  If,"  said  the  preacher,  "  the  Lord  that  made 
heaven  and  earth,  the  sea  and  all  that  in  them  is  and 
rested  the  seventh  day,  wherefore  He  blessed  the 
seventh  day  and  hallowed  it,  if  He,  whose  property 
it  is  always  to  have  mercy,  yet  condemned  to  death 
the  sinner,  just  out  of  idolatrous  Egypt,  to  whom 
the  command  was  hardly  yet  familiar  and  lacking  the 
authority  of  long-continued  hearing,  what  shall  our 
portion  be,  brethren  and  sisters  in  the  Lord,  who 
have  heard  from  our  youth  up  the  solemn  words: 
'  The  seventh  is  the  Sabbath  of  the  Lord  thy  God  '  ? 
The  man  found  picking  up  sticks  might  say  he  had 
forgotten;  he  would  not  dare  to  set  up  another 
authority  against  the  word  of  the  Almighty  thun 
dered  from  Sinai,  but  what  have  we  done?  We  have 


78  FOLKS    BACK    HOME 

made  His  commandment  of  none  effect  and  have 
substituted  another  day,  on  whose  authority,  fellow- 
sinners  and  dying  souls?  On  the  authority  of  our 
heathen  ancestors,  in  their  blindness  worshiping  the 
greater  light  of  heaven  instead  of  Him  who  set  it 
there;  on  the  authority  of  antichrist  himself,  that 
is  to  say,  the  Pope  of  Rome  with  all  his  pagan  idol 
atry  and  soul-destroying  mummeries!" 

The  elders  and  pillars  of  the  church  fidgeted  in 
their  pews,  and  Horatio  Southard  got  up  and 
"  stomped  "  out,  followed  by  Mrs.  Southard,  red  and 
embarrassed,  mincing  and  bridling  as  she  pushed 
ahead  of  her  little  Johnny,  who  kept  whimpering  all 
the  way  down  the  aisle,  "What  for,  ma?  What  for? 
Meetin'  ain't  out  yit.  What  for,  ma?  "  She  never  for 
gave  Rashe  for  putting  her  in  such  a  predicament, 
and  worst  of  all,  that  he  had  prevented  her  from 
hearing  at  first  hand  the  announcement  of  Mr. 
Bailey  that  hereafter,  God  willing,  there  would  be  no 
more  preaching  on  the  heathenish  Sun-day,  but  that 
on  the  coming  Sabbath — that  is  to  say,  Saturday — 
there  would  be  divine  service  at  the  usual  hours, 
10.30  in  the  morning  and  7.30  in  the  evening. 

After  church  the  congregation  gathered  at  the 
doors  and  felt  in  the  clear  air  and  familiar  scenes  that 
they  were  once  again  in  a  sane  and  reasonable  world 
where  things  \vere  as  they  always  had  been.  There 
was  Judge  Rodehaver's  house  across  the  way,  there 


THE    SEVENTH    TRUMPET  79 

was  the  horse  block.  Yes,  it  was  just  the  same  as 
ever.  But  inside,  under  the  spell  of  that  wild,  im 
petuous  eloquence,  the  former  things  seemed  to 
have  passed  away  and  all  things  to  have  become  new. 
Though  they  all  knew  what  the  Shorter  Catechism 
said  about  the  Christian  Sabbath,  yet  even  now  they 
were  so  bewitched  that  they  never  even  thought 
of  it. 

"  It  did  certainly  seem  reasonable/'  declared  the 
Widow  Parker  with  her  Teacher's  Bible,  ragged 
from  long  and  hard  usage,  "  if  you  run  up  the  refer 
ences,  like  what  he  give  you.  Most  of  'em  I  got,  and 
they  was  jist  like  what  he  said,  but  laws!  I  don't  be 
lieve  I  could  get  my  bakin'  done  in  time  for  meetin' 
Saddy.  W'y,  Saddy's  my  busiest  day!" 

"  Ain't  it  everybody's  busiest  day? "  demanded 
Cal  Hubert,  bobbing  his  head  at  Mrs.  Parker,  scowl 
ing  and  wabbling  his  long,  loose  forefinger  at  her,  as 
if  he  were  going  to  eat  her  up.  "  Ain't  I  got  to  stay 
down  at  the  store  till  'way  late  Saddy  night,  ten, 
'leven,  twelve  o'clock?  Ain't  I?  Ain't  I?  Well,  I  tell 
you  the  Sabbath  was  made  for  man.  Yes,  sir,  the 
Sabbath  was  made  for  man,  so  it  was.  Yes,  sir.  Not 
man  for  the  Sabbath.  No,  sir.  Made  for  man."  He 
canted  his  head  to  one  side  and  brought  it  back  as  if 
he  had  said  the  word  that  ended  the  dispute. 

"  Well,  but,  Calvin,"  began  Mrs.  Parker,  "  I  don't 
see  as  that  text — "  But  Marinus  Moran  cut  in  with 


80  FOLKS    BACK    HOME 

his  deep,  slow  voice  to  demand:  "  To  go  buggy 
ridin'  on?"  Mr.  Moran  felt  called  upon  at  all  times 
and  in  all  places  to  point  out  to  others  wherein  they 
erred  and  came  short. 

"  Oh,  well,  now,  Mr.  Moran,  don't  you  go  to  git- 
tin'  pers'nal.  That  ain't  the  question.  That  ain't  it 
at  all.  What  I  done  ain't  the  question.  No,  sir.  It  was 
away  last  summer,  anyways.  It  ain't  the  question. 
You  show  me  chapter  an'  verse  where  it  says  not 
to  go  buggy  ridin'  on  Sunday.  You  jist  show  it  to 
me.  Point  it  out  to  me.  You  show  it."  Cal  was  ex 
citedly  bobbing  his  head  at  Marinus  and  shaking  his 
forefinger  at  him  and  overpowering  the  boom  of  his 
heavy  artillery  with  the  rattle  of  his  rapid-fire  gun. 

"Sh!"  said  several  others  all  at  once,  and  the 
groups  parted  silently  and  left  a  clear  way  down  the 
brick  walk.  The  preacher  passed,  making  slight  im 
personal  bows  right  and  left.  His  black  eyes  blazed 
with  excitement,  his  lips  moved,  and  his  fingers 
worked.  Lean  and  lank  he  lurched  along,  his  coat 
tails  flying  as  he  swung  his  arms.  His  wife,  a  pale, 
sandy-haired  woman  as  lean  as  he,  but  with  a  more 
"  peaked  "  look  because  of  her  long  nose,  followed 
leading  little  Eunice  and  Ira,  her  eyes  on  her  hus 
band  as  if  he  had  mesmerized  her. 

Center  Street  M.  E.  let  out  about  the  same  time, 
and  of  course  the  Second  Presbyterians  could  not 
keep  their  own  affairs  to  themselves,  but  had  to  tell 


THE    SEVENTH    TRUMPET  81 

it,  and  so  the  Center  Street  folks  had  plenty  to  talk 
about  that  afternoon.  Perhaps  they  were  rather  glad 
of  it.  All  the  other  churches  in  town  had  had  their 
troubles,  but  not  Center  Street,  no,  not  Center  Street. 
"  A  thousand  shall  fall  beside  thee,  and  ten  thousand 
at  thy  right  hand,  but  it  shall  not  come  nigh  thee." 
The  day  of  Center  Street  was  not  yet  come,  but 
when  it  did —  Let  us  not  talk  about  it.  There  are 
some  things — many  things — it  were  better  not  to 
think  about,  let  alone  to  put  into  words. 

At  the  preacher's  house,  Mrs.  Bailey  took  off  her 
things  without  a  word  and  hung  them  up.  She  went 
out  into  the  kitchen,  and  into  her  pale,  bulging  eyes 
the  tears  came  as  she  got  ready  the  dinner  of  steak, 
cut  thin,  pounded,  scored,  and  fried  very  well  done, 
mashed  potatoes,  and  dried-apple  pie.  Ira  and  Eu 
nice  put  their  things  away,  too,  and  pushed  them 
selves  up  on  chairs  in  the  parlor,  where  they  sat  with 
their  hands  folded  and  watched  their  father  pace  up 
and  down  with  his  hands  behind  him  and  mutter 
ing  to  himself.  They  cowered  as  he  came  near 
them  once.  The  motion  attracted  his  notice.  He 
stopped  and  looked  at  them  and  then  resumed  his 
walk. 

"  Innocent  children!  "  he  declaimed,  in  his  preach 
ing  voice.  "  Not  yet  blighted  with  sin.  Not  yet.  Ira, 
do  you  feel  your  calling  and  election  sure?  You  do, 
don't  you,  Eunice?  " 


82  FOLKS    BACK    HOME 

"  Yeththir,"  she  answered  promptly. 

"  And  don't  you,  Ira?  Don't  you,  my  son?  " 

The  boy  dug  his  toe  into  the  faded  carpet  and  re 
plied  doggedly:  "  I  do  if  Eunice  does,"  and  stole  a 
look  at  her. 

"  Oh,  yes,  oh,  yes,"  the  preacher  went  on  rhapsodi- 
cally,  "  their  angels  do  always  behold  the  face  of  my 
Father  which  is  in  Heaven.  ...  Of  such  is  the 
kingdom.  .  .  .  Unspotted  from  the  world  and  yet 
how  soon  to  be  exposed  to  its  temptations  and  to 
lose  their  primal  innocence."  He  stopped  and  put  his 
hand  on  Ira's  head.  The  boy  moved  his  head  as  if  a 
little  scared,  and  the  hand  slid  down  on  the  child's 
neck  at  the  corner  of  his  jaw  and  then  was  snatched 
away.  The  preacher  had  begun  to  say:  "  It  was  ac 
counted  unto  Abraham  for  righteousness — "  When 
he  resumed  his  natural  voice  and  said  to  them  quite 
gently:  "You  can  run  out  and  play."  As  he  saw 
them  hesitate,  he  urged  them:  "  Go  on;  go  on.  You 
can  play  all  you  want  to  and  have  a  nice  time."  They 
darted  out  eagerly. 

The  mother  opened  a  side  door  and  whispered 
to  them:  "  I  wouldn't  make  any  noise  if  I  was  you. 
It's  Sunday,  and  people  might  think  it  was  strange." 

"  We'll  be  real  thtill,  ma,"  lisped  Eunice. 

Ira  waited  till  the  door  shut,  and  then  continued 
what  he  had  been  saying:  "And  you  know  they's 
these  here  false-face  things  they  put  on  and  he  could 


THE    SEVENTH    TRUMPET  83 

easy  get  clothes  like  pa's  and  false  hair  and  whiskers 
like  his." 

"  Where  do  you  thpose  our  real  pa  ith,  then?  " 
asked  Eunice. 

"  I  don't  know.  Mebby  he's  dead.  Mebby  this 
other  man  toled  him  off  summers  and  killed  him  and 
got  his  clothes,  and  could  talk  like  him  and  then  got 
the  false  face  and  put  it  on.  I  tell  you,  Eunice,  next 
time  he  hugs  you  you  feel  and  see  if  you  can't  find 
the  string  where  the  false  face  is  tied  on." 

"  O  Ira,  you.  I'm  afraid." 

"  Huck-uh.  He  never  hugs  me.  Say,  I  wonder  if 
he  ain't  lookin'  for  the  string  to  my  false  face.  He's 
always  feelin'  at  my  neck." 

Mrs.  Bailey  overheard  part  of  their  talk  and 
groaned  aloud.  "  O  my  Lord!  They've  noticed  it! 
What  shall  I  tell  them?  "  As  she  leaned  over  to  poke 
the  frying  steak  with  a  fork  she  whispered:  "Why 
has  this  affliction  come  upon  us?  Was  it  because  I 
made  an  idol  of  him?  " 

At  dinner  Mr.  Bailey  made  a  long  and  wandering 
prayer  when  he  asked  a  blessing.  He  paused  for,  it 
seemed,  a  minute  and  said  "  Amen!  "  quite  suddenly. 
Then  he  resumed  his  natural  voice  and  began  help 
ing  the  plates.  He  took  a  sup  of  the  thin  coffee  and 
a  bite  of  the  soggy  bread  and  sat  staring  at  his  plate. 

"  Mr.  Bailey,"  said  his  wife,  "  you  ort  to  eat  more 
dinner.  You  don't  seem  to  have  no  appetite  here 


84  FOLKS    BACK    HOME 

lately.  You  don't  eat  enough  to  keep  a  bird  alive. 
Take  some  of  the  meat." 

He  took  up  the  carving  knife,  looked  at  it,  felt 
of  the  edge,  and  started  up,  flinging  down  the  knife 
and  crying:  "  No,  no!  I  can't  make  the  sacrifice.  I 
love  them  too  much;  I  love  them  too  much!"  He 
ran  upstairs,  waving  his  hands  over  his  head,  and 
Mrs.  Bailey  heard  his  study  door  slam.  She  and  the 
children  ate  on  in  terrified  silence,  and  when  they 
had  finished  she  sent  them  out  to  play  in  the  back 
yard.  "  Very  softly  now,"  she  cautioned  them.  "  It's 
Sunday,  you  know,  and  folks  might  think  strange." 

After  they  had  gone,  she  listened  at  the  stairway 
and  heard  him  groan:  "  O  my  Father,  if  it  be  pos 
sible,  let  this  cup  pass  from  me."  This  was  some 
thing  new.  She  wondered  what  it  was.  It  couldn't 
be  this  about  the  Seventh  Day,  because  he  had 
talked  that  all  over  with  her  and  had  overborne  her 
feeble  resistance.  It  had  been  a  great  cross,  but  her 
back  was  fitted  to  that  burden  now.  It  had  called 
for  all  the  economy  she  was  mistress  of  to  provide 
for  the  family  and  keep  Ira  and  Eunice  looking  nice 
for  school  on  the  small  salary,  and  here  lately  the 
congregation  hadn't  liked  Mr.  Bailey's  preaching. 
Of  course  now  they  would  take  it  to  the  Presbytery 
and  Mr.  Bailey  would  be  put  out,  and  what  they 
should  do  then  she  did  not  know.  But  that  was  not 
what  was  worrying  Mr.  Bailey.  He  had  told  her  the 


THE    SEVENTH    TRUMPET  85 

Lord  would  provide  for  all  their  temporal  wants,  but 
what  was  this  that  had  come  over  him?  She  did  not 
know,  but  she  feared  for  the  worst.  She  would  have 
to  wait,  and  she  would  have  to  keep  it  to  herself. 

Saturday  morning  all  hearkened  for  the  bell  of 
the  Second  Presbyterian.  It  was  a  little  late,  but  it 
sounded.  Mr.  Bailey  rang  it  himself,  and  the  town 
applauded  the  spirit  of  Dicky  Tomlinson,  the  sexton, 
in  rebelling  against  the  preacher.  It  was  well  adver 
tised  that  he  had  said  he'd  be  jiggered  if  he  rung 
that  bell  or  opened  the  church.  He  was  paid  to  do 
that  Sundays  and  Wednesday  evenings.  That  was 
the  understanding  when  he  took  the  job.  Sunday 
and  Wednesday  evenings  he'd  open  up  and  ring  the 
bell,  and  all,  same  as  ever,  but  he'd  be  jiggered  if 
he  would  on  Saturdays.  What  did  the  Bible  say? 
Didn't  it  say:  "  Cursed  be  he  that  removeth  his 
neighbor's  landmarks  "?  And  when  he  had  made  all 
his  arrangements,  and  anybody,  preacher  or  who, 
come  along  and  upset  'em,  wasn't  that  just  the  same 
as  removing  landmarks?  Well,  he  guessed.  He  saw 
himself  ringing  that  bell  on  a  Saturday;  he  just  saw 
himself.  Charley  Pope  said  that  was  the  spirit  of  '76. 

There  were  only  a  few  of  the  regular  congrega 
tion  out,  some  of  the  real  old  people  that  had  no 
other  way  to  pass  the  time,  and  a  few  children.  But 
there  was  a  full  attendance  of  certain  of  whom  all 
the  town  thought  when  the  Epistle  of  Jude  was  read: 


86  FOLKS    BACK    HOME 

"  Clouds  they  are  without  water,  carried  about  of 
winds;  trees  whose  fruit  withereth,  without  fruit, 
twice  dead,  plucked  up  by  the  roots;  raging  waves 
of  the  sea,  foaming  out  their  own  shame;  wander 
ing  stars  to  whom  is  reserved  the  blackness  of  dark 
ness  forever."  They  were  there,  and  they  seemed 
to  Mrs.  Bailey  to  be  vultures  gathering  around  the 
dying. 

There  was  Marinus  Moran,  who  had  gone  a  pil 
grimage  of  all  the  churches  in  the  Center,  looking, 
as  he  said,  for  one  where  there  was  "  heartfelt  "  re 
ligion,  but  in  reality  seeking  a  place  where  he  could 
lord  it  over  everybody.  He  had  been  known  to  pray 
fifteen  minutes  on  a  stretch,  and  a  giggle  went  up 
from  the  back  seats  at  prayer  meeting  whenever  his 
trumpet-toned  address  began:  "  High!  Holay!  Al 
mighty!  Everlasting  Ngon!  "  He  was  a  terrible  old 
man,  and  all  that  decent  people  wanted  buried  out 
of  sight  and  forgotten,  as  it  must  be  if  this  world  is 
to  be  lived  in  at  all,  he  delighted  to  bring  up,  espe 
cially  in  his  long  prayers. 

Aunt  Betty  Mooney  was  there.  She  used  to  get 
to  shouting  during  the  sermon,  and  from  shouting 
she  went  on  to  exhorting  while  the  preacher  had  to 
stand  and  look  at  her.  They  had  a  terrible  time  with 
her  at  St.  Paul's  once  when  Brother  Breen  was 
preaching.  She  started  in,  for  he  was  a  powerful  man, 
and  stirred  folks  up  considerably.  He  stood  it  as 


THE    SEVENTH    TRUMPET  87 

long  as  he  could,  and  then  broke  in  with:  '  '  Let 
your  women  keep  silence  in  the  churches.' ' 

"  I  don't  hold  by  everything  that  Paul  said,"  she 
answered  him.  "  He  owned  up  that  sometimes  he 
spoke  as  a  fool,  and  this  was  one  o'  them  times." 

"  Put  her  out!  "  said  Brother  Breen. 

"  I  won't  be  put  out !  "  she  screamed,  and  hung 
onto  the  pew  while  the  men  tugged  at  her  and 
nearly  tore  the  clothes  off  her  back.  They  got  her 
out  into  the  aisle  and  there  she  flung  herself  flat  on 
the  floor,  kicking  her  heels  and  squalling:  "  '  For  so 
persecuted  they  the  prophets  which  were  before 
you.'  "  Four  of  the  stewards  had  to  pick  her  up  bod 
ily  and  carry  her  out,  locking  the  door  after  her, 
which  she  pounded  till  she  saw  Constable  Halloran 
coming.  Poor  old  Aunt  Betty!  She  was  the  best 
soul  when  there  was  sickness. 

There  was  Zimri  Hollabaugh,  not  so  litigious  as 
these  two,  but  none  the  less  a  disturbing  element, 
so  that  the  sextons  of  all  the  churches  had  orders 
to  keep  him  out.  For  while  he  often  behaved  with 
exemplary  decorum,  no  one  could  tell  when  he 
would  get  "  the  pay-wer  "  and  display  what  he  was 
so  proud  of,  the  apostolic  gift  of  tongues  not  under- 
standed  of  the  people.  Right  in  the  middle  of  the 
minister's  most  impassioned  period,  he  would  jump 
up  and,  clinging  to  the  pew  in  front  of  him,  would 
close  his  eyes  and  sway  back  and  forth,  chanting:  "  O 


88  FOLKS   BACK    HOME 

yay!  O  yay!  Losh-cum-aloshity  wa-wa.  Rascumtoo- 
leroo,  bullallop,  bullallop!  "  never  ceasing  till  he  was 
led  out. 

There  was  "  Tepe  "  Armstrong,  who  proved  things 
out  of  the  works  of  his  illustrious  namesake,  Flavius 
Josephus,  and  Alanson  McKinnon,  and  a  few  more 
of  those  who  delighted  in  theological  disputations 
and  whom  the  present  rebellious  attitude  of  the 
Rev.  Jeremiah  Bailey  attracted  as  a  rubbed  comb 
attracts  light  bodies.  These  gathered  around  him 
after  service  to  congratulate  him  on  his  stand  for 
true  Gospel  religion.  Mrs.  Bailey's  heart  sank  within 
her  as  she  saw  him  talking  to  them  eagerly,  taking 
them  at  their  own  valuation. 

Next  day  Dicky  Tomlinson  rang  the  bell  as  usual, 
but  Mr.  Bailey  did  not  appear.  He  had  told  the  ses 
sion  he  would  not,  and  they  got  old  Mr.  MacFarlane, 
the  stated  clerk  of  the  Presbytery,  to  officiate.  There 
was  a  meeting  of  the  congregation  after  the  sermon 
at  which  an  overture  was  made  to  Presbytery  to 
constitute  the  court  of  Christ  to  try  the  Rev.  Jere 
miah  Bailey  for  heresy,  to  sever  the  pastoral  rela 
tion  heretofore  existing  between  him  and  the  Sec 
ond  Church,  and  to  take  such  steps  as  might  be 
necessary  to  reunite  with  the  First  Church. 

Then  there  came  a  day  when  the  Baileys  had  to 
move  out  of  the  parsonage  and  into  a  little  house 
up  on  Mad  River  Street,  where  on  Saturdays  the 


THE    SEVENTH    TRUMPET  89 

little  congregation  of  "  Searchers,"  as  these  recal 
citrants  called  themselves,  met  in  the  front  room, 
till  they  should  need  a  larger  edifice.  The  collections 
had  a  weekly  average  of  fifty-three  cents.  Once  they 
took  in  fifty-eight  cents.  On  that  the  family  of  the 
Rev.  Jeremiah  Bailey  was  supposed  to  exist. 

But  if  that  had  been  all  that  Mrs.  Bailey  had  been 
called  upon  to  suffer,  she  would  have  borne  her  bur 
den  with  a  light  heart.  Mr.  Bailey  was  sleeping  very 
little  nights  now.  She  could  wake  up  at  any  time 
and  hear  him  groaning:  "  O  my  Father,  if  it  be 
possible,  let  this  cup  pass  from  me!  O  my  Father, 
if  it  be  possible,  let  this  cup  pass  from  me !  "  and  then 
he  would  repeat  long  passages  from  Revelations.  He 
was  preaching  a  series  of  sermons  on  the  seven  an 
gels  with  the  trumpets.  Let  her  drop  off  to  sleep, 
wearied  with  her  cares,  when  she  might  and  wake 
when  she  might,  she  would  always  hear  that  agon 
ized  plea,  "O  my  Father,  if  it  be  possible,  let  this 
cup  pass  from  me! " 

The  explanation  of  his  distress  of  soul  came  one 
night  when  she  awoke  with  a  sudden  chill  on  her 
neck.  It  was  the  carving  knife  laid  against  her  flesh. 

"  Lucy!  "  he  whispered.  "  Lucy!  the  hour  is  come. 
It  is  the  Father's  will.  I  dare  resist  no  longer." 

She  gave  a  leap  of  animal  terror  and  caught  his 
hand.  "O  Mr.  Bailey!"  she  gasped,  "what  is  it?" 

"  Be  calm,  be  calm,"  he  told  her.  "  I  have  taken 


9o  FOLKS    BACK    HOME 

all  the  blankets  and  the  comfort  off  the  spare  bed 
and  spread  them  out  on  the  floor  of  the  kitchen  so 
as  not  to  spot  the  floor.  It's  so  hard  to  get  out  of 
woodwork.  You  take  Eunice,  and  I'll  take  Ira.  Be 
careful  and  don't  make  any  noise.  Don't  wake  them. 
Sh!  then  they  will  go  right  from  their  innocent 
sleep  to  the  glories  of  heaven  where  their  angels 
do  always  behold  the  face  of  the  Father.  They  are 
innocent  as  yet,  but  how  soon,  oh,  how  soon  to  be 
contaminated  by  this  world  of  sin!" 

"  Why,  why,  Mr.  Bailey,  what  do  you  mean  to 
do?  "  she  gasped. 

"  I'll  cut  their  throats,  real  quiet,  real  quiet.  I've 
got  the  knife  so  sharp,  so-o  sharp  they'll  feel  no 
pain  at  all.  And  the  bedclothes  will  soak  up  all  the 
blood.  Yes,  that's  the  best  way.  I've  thought  it  all 
out.  Now  don't  you  say  a  word.  But,  O  Lucy!  I 
would  fain  this  cup  had  passed  from  me.  It  is  so 
hard  to  make  the  sacrifice." 

Fear  clutched  at  her  heart,  not  for  herself  but  for 
her  children.  With  a  heroism  such  as  nerves  heroes 
on  the  battlefield,  she  stilled  the  tremor  in  her  voice 
and  set  herself  to  reason  with  him  and  coax  the  knife 
away  from  him.  It  would  be  presumptuous  sin  in 
them  to  interfere  with  the  Almighty's  plans.  The 
children's  lives  were  in  God's  hands.  He  knew  it 
was  a  world  of  sin  when  He  sent  them  into  it,  and 
what  were  they  to  interfere  and  call  Him  to  account 


THE    SEVENTH    TRUMPET  91 

with,  "  Why  do  ye  so?  "  Whom  He  did  predestinate 
them  He  also  called;  and  whom  He  called  them  He 
also  justified;  and  whom  He  justified  them  He  also 
glorified,  so  that  without  human  let  or  hindrance  all 
could  work  out  to  the  greater  honor  and  glory  of 
God.  She  urged  him  to  consider  the  matter  further 
and  do  nothing  without  her.  She  talked  with  him 
till  he  quieted  down  and  said,  "  I  guess  you're  right, 
Lucy,"  and  settled  himself  to  sleep,  but  it  was  only 
a  little  while  and  he  was  walking  the  floor  again 
and  groaning:  "  O  my  Father,  if  it  be  possible,  let 
this  cup  pass  from  me!" 

Day  after  day  and  especially  night  after  night  it 
was  her  task  to  devise  new  arguments  and  new  ex 
cuses  for  delay.  She  had  to  be  vigilant  about  the 
carving  knife  and  take  care  not  to  let  him  be  alone 
with  the  children  for  a  moment,  at  the  same  time 
keeping  it  from  them  and  from  every  one  else,  too. 
Why  didn't  she  tell  some  one?  Why  didn't  she 
tell  the  doctor  and  have  her  husband  put  where  he 
could  receive  proper  care  and  perhaps  recover  his 
mind? 

In  those  days — in  these  days,  insanity  is  less  a 
disease  than  a  disgrace.  The  afflicted  are  no  longer 
regarded  as  possessed  of  devils,  but  they  are  tried 
and  convicted  by  the  same  machinery  as  a  thief  and 
a  murderer,  and  it  was  only  the  other  day  that  we 
ceased  treating  them  more  cruelly  than  any  felon. 


92  FOLKS    BACK    HOME 

Fearful  stories  were  told  about  the  county  house 
where  the  lunatics  were  kept;  how  they  were  fed  on 
butchers'  scraps  stewed  up;  how  they  beat  the  poor 
things  that  didn't  know  any  better.  They  used  to 
pound  the  ends  of  old  Charity  Newton's  fingers  so 
that  she  couldn't  pick  up  the  pins  she  was  forever 
trying  to  swallow,  and  they  broke  in  the  roof  of  old 
Mrs.  Newsome's  mouth  with  an  iron  spoon  when  she 
wouldn't  eat.  Mrs.  Bailey  could  not  bear  to  think  of 
exposing  her  husband  to  the  ridicule  of  the  loafers 
around  the  courthouse.  She  could  not  bear  to  think 
of  his  being  locked  up  with  that  silly  boy  of  Makem- 
som's  that  used  to  beg  for  tobacco  by  pointing  to 
his  mouth  and  saying:  "  Ub-bub-bub-baa !  Ub-bub- 
bub-baa!  "  If  it  had  to  come,  it  had  to  come,  but  till 
then  she  would  have  to  wait.  If  anything  happened 
to  the  children,  why,  why — it  would  happen  to  her, 
too. 

Some  days  he  was  just  like  his  old  self  and  Eunice 
said  to  Ira:  "  Pa'th  come  back.  And  thay,  Ira.  I  felt, 
and  they  wathn't  nothtring  like  you  thaid." 

"Well,  then,  he's  got  the  false  face  pasted  on," 
maintained  Ira.  "  It  ain't  pa  at  all." 

"  Oh,  yeth,  he  ith,  too,"  declared  Eunice.  "  Look 
how  nithe  he  wath  to-day." 

"  He  was  jist  a-actin'  like  pa,  that's  all.  My  real 
pa,  he  never  used  to  feel  how  big  my  neck  was  or 
put  his  finger  on  that  place  where  it  beats  right  by 


THE    SEVENTH    TRUMPET  93 

my  jaw.  Say,  Eunice,  did  you  know  it  beats  there 
jist  like  it  does  on  your  wrist?  Well,  it  does.  Now 
you  feel.  Don't  it?  A-ah,  what  did  I  tell  you?  " 

It  was  not  so  long  to  wait.  Th6  sermons  on  the 
angels  with  the  trumpets  were  growing  more  and 
more  fantastic  in  their  imagery.  The  Searchers 
were  amazed  into  silence.  Only  Brother  Hollabaugh 
preserved  his  gift,  but  exercised  it  in  so  subdued  a 
fashion  that  his  low  murmur,  "  O  ya!  O  ya!  Losh- 
cum-a-loshity  wa-wa ! "  fitted  itself  to  the  high- 
pitched  oratory  of  Mr.  Bailey  as  the  drone  of  a  bag 
pipe  fits  the  chanter. 

It  was  the  Monday  before  the  Saturday  when  he 
was  to  preach  the  last  of  the  series  on  Revelations 
x,  7:  "  But  in  the  days  of  the  voice  of  the  seventh 
angel,  when  he  shall  begin  to  sound,  the  mystery  of 
God  should  be  finished,  as  He  hath  declared  to  His 
servants  the  prophets."  Mrs.  Bailey  heard  him  de 
claiming:  "  Maranatha!  Maranatha!  The  Lord  com- 
eth!  And  shall  He  find  faith  in  the  earth?  Shall  He 
find  the  Sabbath  sanctified  and  remembered?  Yes, 
there  is  a  remnant  which  hath  not  bowed  the  knee  to 
Baal — "  And  then  the  front  door  slammed  and  still 
ness  followed.  It  was  time  for  the  children  to  come 
home  from  school.  Suppose  he  should  meet  them! 
She  wrung  her  hands  out  of  the  wash  water,  let  down 
her  skirts  which  she  had  kilted  up,  threw  her  shawl 
over  her  head,  and  started  out  to  seek  them.  She 


94  FOLKS    BACK    HOME 

went  clear  down  to  the  Union  schoolhouse  and  saw 
no  signs  of  either  parent  or  children.  Miss  Munsell 
said  Ira  and  Eunice  had  both  gone  home,  but  search 
as  she  might  she  could  not  find  them  till  she  got  to 
her  own  gate,  when  she  saw  them  coming  from  the 
corner  of  Chillicothe  Street. 

"  Why,  where  have  you  been? "  she  demanded. 
"  You  'most  scared  the  life  out  of  me." 

"  Oh,  jist  down  by  Patterson's,"  said  Ira  and 
looked  at  his  sister. 

"  What  were  you  doing  down  by  Patterson's? 
That's  not  on  the  road  home.  Did  you  see  anything 
of  your  father?  " 

"  You  tell  her,  Euny,"  said  the  boy. 

Eunice  shook  her  head.  For  the  first  time,  Mrs. 
Bailey  noticed  that  the  child  was  crying. 

"  What's  the  matter,  Eunice?  Has  anybody  been 
mean  to  you?  " 

The  child  shook  her  head  again  and  catching  hold 
of  her  mother's  frock  began  to  cry  hard. 

"  Tell  me  what's  the  matter,  Ira." 

"  When  we  was  comin'  home  from  school  we  seen 
a  who'  lot  o'  people  runnin'  into  the  alley  back  o' 
Patterson's,  and  they  was  laughin'  like  everything, 
and  all  the  other  children  run  there,  and  we  run,  too, 
'cause  we  wanted  to  see  what  they  was  laughin'  at. 
And  this  here  man  that  pretends  he's  our  pa,  he  was 
up  on  top  the  barn  with  a  big,  long  tin  horn  in  his 


THE    SEVENTH    TRUMPET  95 

hand  a-blowin'  on  it  and  hollerin'  that  he  was  the 
seventh  angel  with  the  seventh  trumpet,  and  every 
body  was  makin'  fun  of  him." 

"  Yes,"  whispered  Mrs.  Bailey,  "  and  then  what?  " 

"  And  the  constable,  he  had  a  ladder  up  ag'in  the 
barn  and  was  goin'  to  climb  up  it  when  pa — you 
know,  this  man  that  pretends  to  be  our  pa — he  com 
menced  to  flap  his  arms,  makin'  out  he  was  flyin', 
and  jumped  off.  He  lit  on  a  pile  o'  trash  and  stuff, 
and  the  crowd  all  hollered:  '  Here  he  is!'  and 
the  constable  got  around  there  and  took  him  off 
to  the  calaboose,  and  Mr.  Horn,  he  said  for  God's 
sakes  for  somebody  to  take  them  little  young 
ones " 

"  O  Ira!  You  thwored! "  reproved  Eunice. 

"  I  didn't,  either.  I  was  jist  tellin'  ma  what  Mr. 
Horn  said.  He  said  for — you  know — sakes  to  take 
them  poor  little  young  ones  home,  somebody,  and 
not  to  let  'em  see  their  daddy  drug  off  to  jail,  and 
I  told  him  he  wasn't  our  real  pa;  that  he  was  jist 
somebody  with  a  false  face  on  that  looked  like  our 
real  pa,  and  Mr.  Horn  said,  '  O  my  Lord!  ain't  it 
awful? '  and  for  us  to  run  along  home.  And  he  ain't 
our  real  pa,  is  he?  " 

They  were  in  the  house  now.  Mrs.  Bailey  sank  into 
a  chair  and  threw  her  apron  over  her  head,  while  she 
rocked  to  and  fro,  shaken  by  the  billows  of  her  grief. 
The  children  stood  and  looked  at  her  while  Ira  per- 


96  FOLKS   BACK   HOME 

sisted  in  his  query:  "  Is  he,  ma?  Is  he  our  real  pa? 
Ma,  is  he?  O  ma,  is  he?  Tell  me,  is  he?  " 

As  always  in  life,  the  blow  when  it  fell  was  less 
terrible  than  the  fear  of  it.  Mrs.  Bailey  found  that 
she  could  draw  a  long  breath  once  more.  The  chil 
dren  were  safe — at  least,  there  were  only  the  ordi 
nary  perils  of  being  run  over  in  the  street  or  of 
catching  the  scarlet  fever  or  diphtheria.  Then  the 
people  were  so  kind,  even  the  elders  and  the  deacons 
who  had  been  so  hard  on  Mr.  Bailey  when  he  was 
tried  by  Presbytery,  did  everything  they  could  for 
her.  When  it  was  known  how  miserably  poor  she 
and  the  children  were  they  sent  her  groceries  and 
coal  and  warm  clothes  to  make  over  for  Ira  and  Eu 
nice  and  would  not  take  "  no  "  for  an  answer.  She 
was  a  beautiful  washer,  too,  and  people  from  all  over 
town  sent  her  things  they  wanted  done  up  carefully, 
and  paid  her  well  for  it,  so  that,  altogether,  she  made 
out  right  well.  The  "  Searchers "  kept  far  aloof, 
though.  They  had  had  a  poor  opinion  of  her  from 
the  first,  as  being  out  of  sympathy  with  her  gifted 
husband,  and  when  it  came  out  that  he  was  insane, 
they  were  too  much  mortified  to  have  anything  to 
do  with  her.  Even  Aunt  Betty  Mooney  tossed  her 
head  and  held  her  peace  for  once.  Alanson  McKin- 
non  was  the  only  loyal  one.  He  still  kept  the  seventh 
day,  and  whenever  he  came  to  town  he  always 


THE    SEVENTH    TRUMPET  97 

brought  her  something,  a  bushel  of  potatoes  or  tur 
nips  or  a  barrel  of  apples.  Hog-killing  time  he  fetched 
in  some  spareribs.  It  didn't  do  any  good  for  her  to 
say  that  she  had  no  claim  on  him  and  that  she  could 
not  take  his  presents.  He  was  the  "  settest  "  man  in 
his  ways  in  Logan  County.  He  had  made  up  his  mind 
that  he  ought  to  give  her  these  things  and  that 
ended  it. 

Neither  was  Mr.  Bailey's  existence  so  terrible  as 
she  had  feared.  Every  two  weeks  she  went  out  to 
visit  him  at  the  county  house  and  took  him  things 
she  thought  he  would  like  to  eat.  Otho  Littell  drove 
out  there  with  a  load  of  supplies,  and  she  rode  on 
the  seat  with  him  going  and  coming.  Once  Ira  and 
Eunice  went  with  her,  but  only  once.  Whenever  she 
asked  them  after  that  if  they  didn't  want  to  go  and 
see  pa  they  whined,  "  No-o,  no-o."  Now  that  he  had 
his  long  hair  cut  close  to  his  head  with  clippers  and 
his  beard  shaved  off  he  looked  less  like  their  pa  than 
ever,  and  they  would  not  go  to  him,  though  he 
begged  them  to.  He  jumped  up  and  began  to  walk 
the  floor  of  the  long  room,  crying:  "  Unspotted  from 
the  world  as  yet,  but,  oh,  how  soon,  how  soon  to 
be  contaminated!  Their  angels  do  always  behold  the 
face  of  my  Father  which  is  in  heaven." 

A  big,  thin  negro  slipped  up  to  little  Ira  and  mut 
tered  into  his  ear:  "  Boy,  do  you  know  who  I  am?  " 

"  No,  sir,"  whimpered  Ira. 


98  FOLKS    BACK    HOME 

"  Why,  I'm  Jesus  Christ.  Didn't  you  know  that? 
Hell,  yes.  Been  him  for  ever  and  ever  so  long.  That 
feller  over  there  thinks  he  is  too,  but  he's  a  fraud. 
He's  no  good.  Say.  Want  a  million  dollars?  Do 
you?" 

"  Go  on  away  from  there,  Zeke,"  said  Mr.  Herkel- 
rode,  the  poormaster.  "  Go  on,  now,"  and  the 
negro  slunk  away,  grumbling  to  himself.  The  silly 
boy  twitched  Eunice's  apron  and  pointed  to  his 
mouth,  babbling:  "  Ub-bub-bub-baa !  Ub-bub-bub- 
baa!  "  In  one  corner  of  the  room  a  man  walked  up 
and  down  with  his  hands  pressed  together  in  prayer, 
repeating  over  and  over  again  the  same  words,  and 
over  and  over  again  blessing  himself:  "  O  mairci- 
ful  God,  I  beg  of  you  notta  let  this  day  pass  with 
out  saving  my  soul.  In  the  name  of  the  Father  and 
of  the  Son  and  of  the  Holy  Ghostamin.  O  mairci- 
ful  God!  I  beg  of  you  notta  let  this  day  pass  with 
out  saving  my  soul.  In  the  name  of  the  Father  and 
of  the  Son  and  of  the  Holy  Ghostamin." 

"  I  guess,  if  you  don't  mind,  Miss'  Bailey,"  said 
the  troubled  Mr.  Littell  in  response  to  a  motion  of 
the  head  and  a  grimace  from  Mr.  Herkelrode,  "  I'll 
take  the  children  out  to  the  wagon.  You  make  out 
your  visit  to  Mr.  Bailey.  I'll  wait  for  you." 

Mrs.  Bailey  satisfied  herself  that  her  husband 
had  enough  to  eat  and  wear  and  a  clean  bed  to 
sleep  in.  She  had  his  library  sent  out  so  that  he 


THE    SEVENTH    TRUMPET  99 

might  not  lack  for  reading  matter,  but  he  pined  for 
freedom. 

"  '  Woe  is  me,'  "  he  quoted,  "  '  that  I  sojourn  in 
Mesech,  that  I  dwell  in  the  tents  of  Kedar.  My  soul 
hath  long  dwelt  among  them  that  are  enemies  to 
peace.  .  .  .  Free  among  the  dead,  like  the  slain  that 
lie  in  the  grave,  whom  Thou  rememberest  no  more; 
and  they  are  cut  off  from  Thy  hand.  Thou  hast  laid 
me  in  the  lowest  pit,  in  darkness,  in  the  deeps.  .  .  . 
Thou  hast  put  away  mine  acquaintances  from  me; 
Thou  hast  made  me  an  abomination  unto  them.  I  am 
shut  up,  and  I  cannot  come  forth.  .  .  .'  Aw,  Lucy, 
won't  you  take  me  out?  Aw,  Lucy!  I  think  you 
might.  Please,  Lucy,  won't  you?  Aw,  please?  Why, 
Lucy,  the  people  here  are  crazy.  Folks'll  think  I'm 
crazy  if  I  stay  here.  You  don't  think  I'm  crazy,  do 
you,  Lucy?  I  have  so  much  to  do  before  the  mystery 
of  God  is  finished.  You  know,  I'm  the  angel  with 
the  seventh  trumpet.  You  know  that,  don't  you? 
And  say.  They  won't  let  me  have  a  knife  to  cut  my 
nails  with.  Couldn't  you  get  me  a — come  closer — 
couldn't  you  get  me  a  little  knife,  a  little,  little  one, 
and  slip  it  to  me,  slip  it  to  me  when  they  ain't  look 
ing?  You  know  that  '  without  the  shedding  of  blood 
there  is  no  remission  of  sins,'  and  this  is  a  dread 
fully  wicked  place." 

She  had  to  put  him  off  and  quiet  him  the  best  she 
could.  She  knew  how  to  talk  to  him. 


ioo  FOLKS    BACK    HOME 

One  morning  Mr.  Bailey  did  not  come  out  of  his 
room  when  it  was  unlocked.  In  some  way  he  had 
wrenched  the  wire  grating  loose  from  his  window 
and  had  climbed  down  a  rope  made  from  his  bed 
sheet. 

Mr.  Herkelrode  had  one  of  the  paupers  hitch  up 
the  big  wagon  and  drive  to  town  with  him  right 
after  breakfast.  He  pulled  up  in  front  of  the  little 
house  where  Mrs.  Bailey  lived.  Little  Curg  Emer 
son,  with  his  books  under  his  arm,  was  at  the  front 
fence  yodeling  for  Ira  to  come  out.  Mr.  Herkelrode 
knocked  at  the  front  door,  but  there  was  no  answer. 
He  hearkened.  There  was  a  sonorous,  masculine 
voice  within  reciting  something.  Between  verses 
there  was  stillness.  Mr.  Herkelrode  came  down  from 
the  front  porch  very  quietly  and  tiptoed  around  to 
the  side  window.  He  peeped  in  and  stood  staring. 
Then  he  sat  down  very  suddenly  with  his  head  in  his 
hands  and  gulped  hard.  Two  or  three  times  he  tried 
to  get  up  before  he  succeeded.  When  he  came  to 
the  front  fence  he  was  as  white  as  a  sheet. 

"  Bub,"  he  whispered  to  little  Curg,  "  run  down 
to  the  courthouse  and  get  Constable  Halloran. 
Tell  him  to  come  right  quick.  Tell  him  to  bring 
his  revolver.  Tell  him  something  awful  has  happened. 
When  you  go  past  the  blacksmith  shop,  ask  Mr. 
Perkypile  if  he  won't  hurry  right  up.  Run  now." 

Then  he  went  over  to  the  pauper  sitting  in  the 


THE  SEVENTH  TRUMPET  !\%Via#J/rJ 
wagon  and  nodded.  "  Drive  across  to  that  hitching 
post  yan  and  tie  up  and  come  over  here.  Easy  now." 
When  the  pauper  came  in  at  the  gate  Mr.  Herkel- 
rode  said:  "  Don't  make  no  noise.  He's  in  there.  You 
can  look  in  if  you  want  to.  I  don't.  I  got  enough. 
Don't  let  him  see  you." 

The  man  peeped  in  and  came  away  trembling. 
"  He  had  a  chopping  bowl  full  of  something,"  he 
whispered,  "  and  he  was  dipping  his  finger  in  it  and 
sprinkling  it  on  a  kind  of  pulpit  thing  by  the  door. 
I  heard  him  say  something  about  the  altar  at  the 
door  of  the  tabernacle  of  the  congregation." 

"Lord!"  groaned  Mr.  Herkelrode,  shaking  his 
head.  "  He  must  have  had  a  terrible  time  with  her 
before  he  finished  her.  Prints  of  her  hands  all  over 
the  wall  and  he's  jist  covered  with  it.  I  bet  she 
fought  with  him  to  keep  him  from  the  children. 
Did  you  see  'em?  O  my  Lord!  Hear  him  now." 

"  Accept,  O  Lord,"  the  oratorical  voice  rang  out, 
"  this  sacrifice  of  blood  for  the  remission  of  sins. 
Bring  these  Thy  servants  into  Thine  everlasting 
habitations  where — "  There  was  a  silence,  and  then 
a  long,  whimpering  wail:  "  O  that  this  cup  might 
,  have  passed  from  me! "  and  then  the  terrible  sound 
of  a  man  sobbing. 

Mr.  Herkelrode  sighed:  "I  woosh't  them  men'd 
hurry  up  and  come." 


M'REE    HUTCHINS'    HUSBAND 

HARLEY  RODEHAVER  was  walking  down 
Center  Street  with  the  prettiest  girl  in 
Minuca  Center.  Her  name  was  M'ree 
Hutchins.  It  was  in  the  afternoon,  and  a  warm  June 
shower  had  just  cleared  away  and  left  the  sky  a 
purple  blue.  In  the  spoonlike  hollows  of  the  red 
brick  sidewalk  little  pools  of  water  shuddered  and 
made  widening  O's  when  sparkling  drops  fell  from 
the  clean,  wet  leaves  above,  where  hid  a  robin  sing 
ing  ecstatically  of  love.  The  low-slanting  rays  of 
sunlight  tangled  in  the  spreading  meshes  of  the  girl's 
brown  hair.  The  scarlet  ribbon  of  her  mouth  parted 
in  a  flattered  smile  from  her  white  incisors  that 
crossed  ever  so  little.  She  turned  her  head  up  to 
look  at  the  tall  young  fellow  who  walked  beside  her, 
her  firm-fleshed  cheeks  glowed  with  a  color  like 
azaleas,  and  her  big,  long-fringed  eyes  had  the  blue 
of  gentian  blossoms  in  them.  Her  skirt  just  showed 
her  trim-set  ankles  and  her  pretty  feet.  Something 
about  her,  delicate  but  wholesome,  made  you  look 
well  at  her  while  you  might,  as  you  look  well  at 
cherry  trees  in  bloom. 

102 


M'REE    HUTCHINS'    HUSBAND        103 

The  robin  overhead  sounded  the  perfect  octave  of 
their  mood.  What  they  said  we  need  not  listen  to — 
his  labored  compliments,  her  pouting,  self-conscious: 
"Aw,  yes,  you!  You  tell  that  to  every  girl,  I  reck 
on."  The  words  of  love  never  do  quite  go  to  the 
tune  of  it. 

She  was  Tom  Hutchins'  daughter.  He  owned  the 
linseed-oil  mills  down  by  the  depot,  rich  as  cream, 
and  thought  the  world  and  all  of  her.  She  had  a 
younger  brother,  Sam,  but  he  was  such  a  wild, 
healthy,  noisy  creature  that  nobody  in  the  house  had 
a  minute's  peace  while  he  was  in  it,  whereas  old 
Sallie,  the  housekeeper,  and  Nanno,  the  upstairs 
girl,  worshiped  and  adored  Miss  M'ree  and  put  up 
with  all  her  bossy  ways  without  a  murmur.  Such  is 
the  power  of  beauty.  But  she  was  a  good-hearted 
little  thing,  too,  and,  for  all  her  pa  was  well  off  and 
they  kept  two  girls,  she  could  cook  and  run  the 
house  as  well  as  any  poor  girl,  and  her  Battenberg 
was  renowned. 

In  a  pure  democracy  all  the  marriageable  youths 
would  have  been  her  suitors,  but  Minuca  Center  is 
a  strict  plutocracy,  so  only  those  that  were  already 
of  the  nobility  or  that  gave  promise  of  "  being 
somebody "  some  day  dared  approach.  And  not 
always  these.  There  were  worthy  youths  that  sidled 
up  to  her  at  church  socials  and  stammered  out: 
"  Please,  may  I  be  your  company  home?  "  only  to 


104  FOLKS    BACK   HOME 

have  her  turn  away  from  them  with  a  light  titter 
at  their  presumption,  while  they  slunk  back  with 
the  sweat  oozing  from  their  palms  and  a  prickling 
in  the  roots  of  their  hair. 

Mrs.  Hutchins  implanted  these  principles  in  her 
daughter's  bosom  as  she  had  striven  to  implant  them 
in  her  husband's.  Both  Tom  and  she  had  originally 
been  Baptists,  but  as  soon  as  he  began  to  rise  in  the 
world  she  made  him  take  a  pew  in  the  Episcopal 
church.  She  had  very  high  ideas,  Mrs.  Hutchins 
had.  She  was  an  invalid.  She  suffered  from  a  "  com 
plication,"  if  you  know  what  that  is.  The  doctors 
couldn't  tell  what  was  the  matter  with  her,  and  she 
had  tried  them  all,  even  to  that  man  down  in  Colum 
bus  that  tells  what  will  cure  you  just  by  holding  a 
lock  of  your  hair  in  his  hand.  They  all  did  her  good 
for  a  while,  but  not  permanently,  and  she  came  to 
see  that  she  was  doomed  to  live  a  "  shut-in  "  life. 
She  bore  her  lot  with  patient  resignation,  though 
there  were  those  that  said  she  was  just  as  well  able 
to  get  up  and  go  about  her  work  as  they  were,  only 
she  was  too  plagued  lazy  to  do  anything  but  lie 
around  and  read  novels  and  have  people  make  a  fuss 
over  her.  But  nobody  ever  said  that  to  Tom  Hutch 
ins.  Every  time  he  came  into  the  house  he  went  up 
to  her  room  first  thing  and  asked:  "  How  you  feel 
ing,  ma?  " 

Whatever  she  said  or  did  was  all  right,  and  the 


M'REE    HUTCHINS'    HUSBAND        105 

only  time  in  his  life  he  ever  crossed  her  was  when 
he  insisted  that  the  baby  should  be  named  Mary, 
after  his  mother,  who  died  when  he  was  little,  and 
his  sister  Mary,  who  had  raised  him.  Mrs.  Hutchins 
had  chosen  Genevieve — there  was  such  a  lovely 
character  by  that  name  in  "  The  Earl's  Pro'ud 
Daughter,"  which  she  had  just  finished — but  Tom 
said  no,  it  would  have  to  be  Mary,  and  that  ended 
it.  Mrs.  Hutchins  softened  the  asperity  of  the  old- 
fashioned  name  into  Marie,  pronounced  with  the  ac 
cent  on  the  last  syllable—"  M'ree."  That  was  the 
way  they  called  it  in  French,  Mrs.  Hutchins  said. 

M'ree  had  been  calling  on  Minnie  De  Wees  when 
Harley  met  her.  She  showed  Minnie  a  diamond  ring. 
Ed  Coffinberry  had  given  it  to  her.  Yes,  it  was  an 
engagement  ring.  Minnie  is  dreadfully  plain-spoken 
at  times.  She  asked  M'ree  right  out:  "  M'ree,  do  you 
love  him?  "  and  looked  at  her  very  seriously.  M'ree 
said:  "  W'y-y-y,  course  I  do,  goosie.  Isn't  it  lovely? 
Cost  eighty  dollars.  He  bought  it  down  to  Colum 
bus." 

"  Well,  I  reckon  she  does,"  Mrs.  De  Wees  said, 
when  Minnie  told  her  about  it — "  much's  she  kin 
anybody.  But  laws!  I  pity  the  man  that  gets  to  be 
M'ree  Hutchins'  husband." 

Now,  Ed  Coffinberry  was  not  only  ten  years  older 
than  M'ree  in  age,  but  he  was  forty  years  older  than 
her  in  his  ways.  He  was  the  cashier  of  the  Farmers' 


io6  FOLKS    BACK    HOME 

National  Bank,  and  was  already  looked  up  to  by  all. 
He  was  solemn  and  serious  enough  to  be  President 
of  the  United  States.  He  dressed  well,  but  with  a 
punctilious  sobriety  that  captured  confidence  and 
held  it  as  a  magnet  captures  and  holds  a  needle.  He 
was  smooth-shaven,  rather  lean  about  the  jaws, 
parted  his  ashy-blond  hair  smoothly  on  one  side,  and 
had  a  clear,  steady  eye,  a  thin,  straight  nose,  straight 
eyebrows,  and  what  is  called  "  a  noble  forehead." 
He  rarely  smiled.  He  was  a  listener  of  the  first  order 
of  merit,  and  a  man  of  few  words,  but  those  well 
chosen  and  extremely  sensible.  People  liked  to  get 
his  opinion  of  things.  It  was  plain  to  see  he  was 
destined  to  rise  in  the  world,  to  "  be  somebody." 

What  Ed  Coffinberry  saw  in  M'ree  was  a  mystery 
to  some.  I  know.  A  man  is  not  always  wise.  Under 
that  cold  exterior  lurked  a  passion  fierce,  intense. 
Others  had  looked  upon  Tom  Hutchins'  daughter 
and  wished  for  her;  Ed  Coffinberry  set  his  teeth  and 
vowed  to  possess  her.  Something  of  his  purpose 
looked  out  of  his  steel-blue  eyes  and  fascinated  her 
with  a  sense  of  his  power.  They  say  the  women  like 
a  man  that  can  boss  them.  He  was  just  that  kind 
— a  faithful  husband,  but  the  one  to  rule  his  own 
house. 

Now,  M'ree  also  ruled  her  own  house.  She  did 
not  think  it  all  out  in  so  many  words,  but  there  were 
moments  when  she  felt  a  sort  of  rebellion.  When  Ed 


M'REE  HUTCHINS'  HUSBAND  107 
looked  at  her  she  just  had  to  do  as  he  said,  and  she 
wasn't  sure  she  was  going  to  like  that  always.  And 
then  the  love  making  had  been  so  pitifully  brief  and 
uneventful.  Of  course  she  liked  him,  and  all  that, 
and  he  liked  her,  but  she  wished  she  had  left  him 
dangling  a  while,  and  had  not  said  "  Yes,"  quite  so 
soon.  It  seemed  kind  of  an  imposition  to  ask  her  to 
settle  down  to  housekeeping  without  going  around 
more,  seeing  more  fellows,  and  all  like  that.  She 
had  been  to  the  governor's  inauguration  ball  down 
at  Columbus  the  year  before,  but  that  was  so  long 
ago;  she  was  only  a  girl  then.  A  subtle  discontent 
assailed  her. 

She  didn't  show  her  engagement  ring  to  Harley 
Rodehaver.  She  liked  him;  he  was  real  nice,  so  tall 
and  strong,  and  he  had  such  pretty  eyes.  Dark  eyes 
they  were,  kind  of  sad  and  mournful,  although  he 
was  a  regular  cut-up.  They  reminded  her  of — er — of 
— er — oh,  you  know!  That  fellow  in  "  Strathmore." 

Harley  had  been  graduated  from  Otterbein  Uni 
versity  the  year  before — there  is  a  university  every 
four  miles  in  Ohio — and  had  come  to  Minuca  Cen 
ter  to  read  law  with  his  Uncle  John,  Judge  Rode 
haver.  He  had  been  very  diligent  and  had  delighted 
the  old  gentleman  with  his  intelligence  and  his  in 
dustry,  but  it  was  summer  now  and  he  was  relax 
ing  somewhat.  He  was  a  fine  tennis  player,  and  he 
could  pick  a  banjo  and  sing  college  songs  to  per- 


io8  FOLKS    BACK    HOME 

fection.  But  it  was  when  he  turned  his  full  and 
vibrant  barytone  to  songs  like  "  Because  I  Love 
You,  Dear,"  that  the  cold  shivers  ran  all  over  you 
and  you  felt  sort  of  sorry  about  something,  you 
didn't  know  what,  unless  it  was  that  your  life  was 
empty  and  that  more  was  coming  to  you  by  rights 
than  you  ever  would  get.  Mrs.  Hutchins  often  in 
vited  him  to  come  and  sing  for  a  poor  "  shut-in." 
He  used  to  go  up  and  visit  her,  and  once  she  kissed 
him  for  his  poor,  dead  mother,  whom  she  had  never 
seen  or  heard  tell  of  before. 

Ed  Coffinberry  did  not  like  it  very  well  that  Har- 
ley  called  so  often,  but  what  could  he  do?  They 
had  two  or  three  little  tiffs  about  it,  but  Ed  always 
got  M'ree's  eye,  and  she  made  it  up  with  him.  But 
the  grand  flare-up  came  when  the  younger  crowd 
got  up  a  straw  ride  and  dance  out  at  Silver  Lake  and 
invited  M'ree.  Ed  was  invited,  too,  though  it  wasn't 
quite  his  set,  but  when  he  heard  Harley  was  to  be 
there  he  told  her  she  shouldn't  go  a  step.  Anyhow, 
his  people  were  strict  Methodists,  as  are  most  of  the 
inhabitants  of  Logan  County,  and  as  cashier  of  the 
bank  it  wouldn't  do  for  him  to  attend. 

"  What's  the  reason  I  can't  go?  "  demanded  M'ree 
angrily.  "  What  have  you  got  to  say  about  it?  Since 
when  did  you  get  to  be  my  boss?  " 

Ed's  eyes  looked  very  serious  as  he  answered: 
"  I'm  not  trying  to  boss  you,  dearie.  I  am  only  say- 


M'REE    HUTCHINS'    HUSBAND        109 

ing  that  I  don't  think  it  proper  for  you  when  you 
are  engaged  to  me " 

"  Think  I'm  going  to  poke  round  home  all  the 
time  and  never  go  any  place  or  see  anything  just 
because  I'm  engaged  to  you?  Well,  I  guess  not.  I 
guess  not.  I  think  you're  a  little  previous  with  your 
authority,  Mr.  Coffinberry.  I'd  like  to  know  what 
there  is  about  a  little  dance  among  the  young  peo 
ple  that  isn't  '  proper '  as  you  call  it." 

Remembering  what  he  had  heard  the  preachers 
say  about  the  unabashed  and  shameless  license  of 
the  ballroom,  Ed  began:  "Don't  you  think  it's 
wrong  for  a  girl  to  let  herself  be  hugged  by  a  fellow 
while  they  go  capering  around  a  room,  away  out 
there  at  Silver  Lake  at  all  hours  of  the  night " 

"Who  are  you  talking  to?"  she  stormed,  scarlet 
with  rage  at  the  prurient  prudery  the  man  displayed. 
"  Do  you  think  I'd  let  anybody  hug  me?  In  public, 
that  is.  You  don't  know  what  you're  talking  about. 
You  think " 

"  That's  what  they  do  at  dances.  They " 

"  No,  they  don't,  either — now.  In  the  square 
dances  and  in  the  two-steps  and  waltzes  the  gentle 
man " 

"  Well,  M'ree,"  he  said,  "  we  won't  discuss  it.  I 
don't  think  a  girl  with  any  self-respect  would " 

"  Do  you  think  my  pa  would  let  me  dance  if  he 
thought  it  wasn't  respectable?  My  ma  taught  me  to 


no  FOLKS    BACK   HOME 

dance  when  I  was  a  little  thing,  before  she  took 
down  sick.  I  guess  they  know  as  much  about  what's 
respectable  and  what  isn't  as  you  do.  Oh,  I'm  dis 
gusted  with  you!" 

"  M'ree— -"  he  began. 

"  If  you  think  I'm  the  kind  that  would  act  the 
way  you  said,  what  do  you  want  to  marry  me  for?. 
And,  furthermore,  if  you're  going  to  make  a  fuss 
every  time  there's  any  little  party  or  anything,  why, 
we'll  just  consider  the  engagement  at  an  end,  Mr. 
Coffinberry." 

She  made  her  mouth  a  straight  line,  lifted  her 
eyebrows,  and  almost  shut  her  eyes  as  she  slowly 
turned  her  head  from  him  and  his  magnetic  gaze  till 
she  steadfastly  regarded  the  Rogers  group,  "  Weigh 
ing  the  Baby,"  on  a  stand  by  the  front  window,  in 
full  view  of  the  street  when  the  shades  were  up. 

"  Do  you  mean  that,  M'ree?  "  he  asked  solemnly, 
vainly  trying  to  catch  her  eye. 

She  tapped  her  tiny  foot  impatiently,  just  like 
Bessie  in  "  Bessie's  Secret,"  but  made  no  other  an 
swer. 

"  M'ree,  do  you  mean  that?  " 

"  Please  address  me  as  Miss  Hutchins.  Yes,  I  do 
mean  that." 

He  rose.  "  Good-by,  M'ree,"  he  said. 

"  Good-by." 

He  walked  out  in  the  hall  very  slowly.  He  ex- 


M'REE    HUTCHINS'    HUSBAND        in 

pected  her  to  call  him  back.  With  grave  delibera 
tion  he  put  on  his  hat  and  moved  toward  the  door. 
He  turned  the  doorknob.  She  spoke.  He  listened. 
She  said:  "Hope  I  never  see  you  again!"  He 
couldn't  see  her,  but  as  the  door  slammed  she  made 
a  face  at  him. 

She  was  provoked  at  herself,  though,  the  next 
second.  It  was  such  a  spiteful  thing  to  say.  And  to 
make  a  face  at  him!  Well,  she  told  her  mother,  she 
knew  it  was  awful  to  act  that  way,  but  she  was  so 
mad  at  him.  Talk  like  that  to  her.  Huh!  Well! 

"  You'll  have  to  give  him  his  ring  back,"  said  Mrs. 
Hutchins. 

"  Laws!  I  never  thought  about  it.  I  don't  care.  I 
don't  want  his  old  ring  if  I've  got  to  take  him  with 
it.  My  heavens! " 

"  It's  a  real  nice  ring." 

"  Yes,  kind  of."  She  looked  at  it  as  it  bristled  with 
spikes  of  particolored  light.  "  I  oughtn't  to  talk  to 
you,  ought  I,  ma?  Gets  you  all  upset  and  nervous. 
Well,  I'm  not  going  to  bother  my  head  any  more 
about  it.  Just  dismiss  it  from  my  thoughts.  Good 
night,  ma.  I'm  going  to  take  the  ring  off  and  send 
it  back  to  him  to-morrow — if  I  think  of  it." 

The  next  day  she  met  Harley  at  Palmer's,  playing 
tennis.  He  asked  her  if  she  was  going  to  the  dance. 
She  said  she  was  afraid  not.  She'd  like  to,  awfully, 
but  she  couldn't  go  alone  very  well,  and 


ii2  FOLKS    BACK    HOME 

Quite  a  crowd  went  out  to  the  lake;  rode  over  in 
two  big  wagons,  and  had  a  gay  time.  Never  got 
home  till  daylight.  There  was  a  big  talk  about  it, 
for  most  of  the  girls  and  some  of  the  boys  belonged 
to  Center  Street  M.  E.  Old  Uncle  Billy  Nicholson 
went  about  like  a  roaring  lion,  demanding  that  the 
offenders  be  "  churched,"  every  last  one  of  them. 
He  said  it  was  just  awful,  the  way  Methodists  were 
getting  so  worldly.  They  didn't  pay  any  more  atten 
tion  to  the  "  Discipline  "  than  if  there  wasn't  such 
a  book.  But  it  was  generally  agreed  that  the  easiest 
way  was  the  best  way.  It  would  have  about  de 
populated  the  Epworth  League  if  the  dancers  had 
been  put  out  of  the  church.  Uncle  Billy  was  all  right, 
but  he  was  kind  of  old  fogy.  He  didn't  believe  in 
letting  the  women  folks  wear  feathers  or  artificial 
flowers;  he  was  against  an  organ  and  a  choir  in  the 
church;  he  didn't  believe  in  Christmas  trees  or  oys 
ter  suppers  or  strawberry  festivals  or  anything.  Oh, 
religion,  of  course.  He  believed  in  that.  You  know 
what  I  mean. 

People  were  so  busy  talking  about  it,  though, 
that  they  quite  overlooked  how  constantly  Harley 
Rodehaver  was  with  M'ree  Hutchins  the  week  after 
the  dance,  calling  every  evening  and  walking  with 
her  afternoons. 

One  day  they  went  over  to  the  B.  &  I.  depot  just 
about  the  time  the  south-bound  accommodation  was 


M'REE    HUTCHINS'    HUSBAND        113 

due.  They  stood  at  the  far  end  of  the  platform,  Har- 
ley  talking  very  earnestly  and  pleadingly,  and  M'ree 
poking  at  a  crack  in  the  boards  with  her  parasol. 
Finally,  just  as  the  train  whistled,  she  looked  up  and 
said:  "Well,  all  right,"  and  Harley  bought  two 
round-trip  tickets  to  Marysville,  the  county  seat  of 
Knox,  which  is  the  next  county  to  Logan. 

Now,  Henry  Wolf,  the  county  clerk  of  Knox,  was 
a  great  political  friend  of  Tom  Hutchins,  and  when 
Harley  gave  M'ree's  name  when  he  applied  for  the 
license,  Henry  asked:  "Tom  Hutchins'  daughter?" 

Harley  said:  "Yes." 

"  How  old  is  the  lady?  " 

"  Nineteen,  aren't  you,  M'ree?  " — scowling  at  her 
and  nodding  ever  so  slightly.  But  M'ree  was  look 
ing  at  a  real  handsome  fellow  across  the  hall  in 
the  recorder's  office,  and  she  answered:  "  Why, 
no;  I  won't  be  eighteen  till  the  fourteenth  of  next 
month." 

"  Just  excuse  me  a  moment,"  said  Henry,  and 
stepped  into  the  next  room,  closing  the  door  after 
him.  There  was  a  long-distance  telephone  in  there. 

"  Why  didn't  you  tell  him  you  were  nineteen?  " 
whispered  Harley. 

"  Well,  but,  Harley,  I'm  not." 

"  But  you  could  have  said  you  were,  couldn't 
you?  " 

"  O  Harley,  and  tell  a  story? "  She  opened  her 


ii4  FOLKS    BACK    HOME 

big  eyes,  as  if  all  her  life  she  had  done  nothing  but 
tell  the  truth. 

After  a  long  time  Mr.  Wolf  came  back.  He  stood 
at  the  counter,  upending  his  pencil  and  pushing 
it  through  his  fingers  and  then  upending  it  again. 
"  If  I  was  you  two,"  he  said  finally,  "  I'd  go  talk  it 
over  with  the  old  folks.  You  got  lots  o*  time.  You 
don't  need  to  be  in  no  hurry.  You're  both  young 
yet." 

Harley  said  they  wanted  to  get  married  right 
away. 

"  Well,  I  don't  know  how  you  kin,"  said  Henry. 
"  Not  in  this  county,  anyways.  Because  they  won't 
marry  you  without  a  license,  and  I  ain't  agoing  to 
give  you  one." 

"  Why  not?  "  demanded  Harley. 

"  You  don't  want  no  secret  marriage.  It  looks 
awful  green,  really  it  does.  And  it  makes  all  kinds 
of  trouble  afterwards  when — "  He  stopped  and 
looked  at  M'ree.  She  turned  her  back  to  him  and 
began  to  blush.  Harley  got  red,  too.  "  Why  not? 
Well,  I  tell  you  why  not.  Because  her  pa  says  '  No/ 
and  for  you  two  to  come  right  straight  back  home. 
Tom  Hutchins  is  my  friend,  and  for  that  reason,  if 
for  no  other,  I  wouldn't  give  you  the  license.  Now, 
you  take  my  advice,  and " 

"  Come  on,  M'ree,"  said  Harley,  and  pushed  her 
out  of  the  office. 


M'REE    HUTCHINS'    HUSBAND        115 

"Better  go  on  back  home!"  Henry  called  out 
after  them,  and  as  they  got  out  on  the  sidewalk  they 
could  hear  him  laughingly  evading  the  questions  of 
the  clerks  as  to  what  was  up. 

At  the  depot  Harley  asked  what  the  fare  was  to 
Mechanicsburg,  the  county  seat  of  Miami,  the  next 
one  to  Knox.  When  he  came  to  count  up  his  money 
he  found  that  by  the  time  he  had  bought  two  tickets 
and  paid  for  the  license  he  would  not  have  more 
than  $1.80  to  pay  the  minister  with.  Besides,  they 
.wouldn't  get  to  Mechanicsburg  until  after  the  clerk's 
office  had  closed  for  the  day. 

The  situation  was  awful.  Harley  walked  up  and 
down  the  platform,  scowling  and  biting  his  lips.  All 
of  a  sudden  M'ree  began  to  cry.  He  took  her  to 
his  bosom  and  patted  her  back  soothingly. 

"  Pa'll  scold  me,"  she  sniffed.  "  I  just  know  he 
will." 

"  Never  mind,  my  darling,"  Harley  said,  in  his 
deep,  tender  voice.  "  Never  mind.  I  will  be  there  to 
protect  you,  your  husband  " — she  thrilled — "  your 
husband  in  the  sight  of  Gawd."  He  expelled  his 
breath  and  drew  it  in  again  through  his  clinched 
teeth:  "  Ah!  Shee-ee-ee!  This  is  terrible!  To  have  the 
cup  of  happiness  pressed  to  one's  very  lips  and  then 
to  have  it  dashed  away!  Gee!"  He  shook  his  head 
in  the  bitterness  of  his  anguish. 

"O  Ame!  Say,  Amos!"  yelled  the  station  agent 


ii6  FOLKS    BACK    HOME 

to  a  man  rattling  by  on  a  wagon.  "  When  you  go  by 
Hoover's,  tell  him  they's  a " 

"Whoa,  John!  Whoa,  Molly!  Whoa,  there!  So! 
Stand  still,  can't  you?  What  say?" 

"  W'y,  I  said  for  you  to  stop  and  tell  Jim  Hoover 
when  you  go  by  there  they's  a  kag  o'  bolts  come 
up  from  C'lumbus  for  him  on  Thirty-three."  The 
station  agent's  voice  rapidly  sank  from  a  bellow  to 
a  parlor  tone  as  he  walked  over  to  the  wagon.  He 
gave  a  sharp  backward  twitch  of  his  head  to  call 
Amos's  attention  to  the  young  couple  on  the  plat 
form.  He  put  his  foot  up  on  the  hub  of  the  front 
wheel. 

"  Got  it  bad,  ain't  they?  "  said  Amos. 

"O  laws!  Y'ort  to  hear  'em.  'Don't  cry,  darlin', 
don't  cry.  I'll  purtect  ye! '  " 

"Git  out!" 

"  Honest  to  God.  Oh,  sick'nin',  jist  sick'nin'." 

"  I  jing!  I  woosh  'twas  me  she  had  hugged  up 
thataway!"  And  Amos  cackled  the  falsetto  laugh 
that  men  use  at  certain  times. 

"  Know  who  she  is?  "  whispered  the  station  agent. 
"  That's  Tom  Hutchins'  girl,  up  to  the  Center. 
From  what  I  could  gather,  him  and  her  has  run  off 
to  git  married  and  kind  o'  slipped  up  on  it.  I'm  goin' 
to  telefoam  up  to  Hannigan  on  the  Examiner  and 
put  him  onto  it." 

Three  long-legged  boys  in  big,  droopy,  straw-pile 


M'REE    HUTCHINS'    HUSBAND        117 

hats,  barefooted,  wearing  hickory  shirts  and  brown 
apron-front  overalls  with  straps  over  the  shoulders, 
sidled  up  and  stared  at  Harley  and  M'ree.  From  time 
to  time  they  shut  their  mouths  to  swallow,  and  then 
let  them  fall  open  again. 

"  We  have  our  love  for  solace  in  this  trying  hour," 
said  Harley,  blind  to  all  else  but  the  girl  on  his 
bosom.  "  Haven't  we,  dearest?  Say  that  you  love  me, 
won't  you,  pet?  Say  it  again!  Go  on  away,  you! 
Skip,  now!  "  Scared  by  the  peremptory  stamp  of 
his  foot,  the  boys  retreated  a  little  space  and  then 
halted,  staring  and  inching  nearer,  lured  by  the  fas 
cinating  sight. 

"  Let's  get  away  from  this  rabble,"  said  Harley, 
with  stinging  emphasis,  and  they  went  into  the  sta 
tion.  Some  of  the  boys  went  around  to  the  back 
and  built  up  a  precarious  pedestal  of  brickbats,  on 
which  they  took  turns  standing  and  peering  through 
the  grimy  window.  Others  stayed  on  the  platform 
about  the  door.  Part  of  a  head  and  one  glaring  eye 
would  stealthily  grow  out  from  the  door  jamb  and 
then  swiftly  vanish,  only  to  grow  again.  Other  boys 
came.  The  couple,  sitting  far  apart,  could  hear  them 
whisper. 

It  was  very  still. 

The  roosters  crowed  a  great  deal. 

The  mob  of  boys,  soft-footed  and  silent,  attended 
them  to  the  train  and  watched  them  to  their  seat. 


n8  FOLKS    BACK   HOME 

When  the  train  drew  out,  a  shrill,  derisive  chorus 
followed.  It  was  a  mile  before  Harley  laid  his  arm 
along  the  back  of  the  seat,  and  two  miles  before 
M'ree  got  a  cinder  in  her  eye. 

Mr.  Hutchins  was  waiting  for  them  with  a  closed 
carriage.  He  took  them  home  in  silence.  After  din 
ner  they  all  went  into  the  library.  Harley  braced 
himself  when  Mr.  Hutchins  began:  "Now,  young 
man."  It  was  what  he  expected  to  hear.  How  was 
he  going  to  support  a  wife?  He  had  no  trade,  no 
profession.  He  could  not  reasonably  expect  to  sup 
port  himself,  let  alone  a  wife,  by  practicing  law  for 
three  years  at  the  very  least  calculation.  Better  say 
five  years.  And  if  he  thought — if  he  thought  for  one 
minute  that  Tom  Hutchins  was  going  to  keep  him 
in  idleness,  why,  the  sooner  he  got  that  notion  out 
of  his  head  the  better.  To  all  of  this  Harley  had  one 
all-sufficing  answer:  He  loved  M'ree  and  M'ree 
loved  him,  didn't  she?  Yes.  Well.  And  what  was  life 
without  love?  Harley  made  a  most  eloquent  address. 
He  was  even  moving  Tom  Hutchins  a  little  when 
the  bell  rang.  Starched  skirts  rustled  away  from 
the  library  door,  and  presently  Nanno  announced: 
"  Misther  Hannigan,  of  th'  Examiner,  have  called 
for  oo,  son" 

When  Mr.  Hutchins  returned  from  a  rather  ex 
citing  interview,  he  found  the  two  demurely  seated 
on  opposite  sides  of  the  room.  Harley  laid  aside 


M'REE  HUTCHINS'  HUSBAND  119 
"The  Royal  Path  of  Life"  and  looked  up  inquir 
ingly  at  Mr.  Hutchins  as  he  entered. 

"  Well,  you're  in  for  it  now,"  said  Mr.  Hutchins 
surlily.  "  Since  you  were  so  keen  to  get  married  in 
a  hurry  and  without  any  flubdub,  that's  the  way  it'll 
be.  To-morrow  evening,  in  the  house  here,  seven- 
thirty,  by  Mr.  Courtney.  Take  the  nine  o'clock  train 
to  Niagara  Falls  and  back  here  in  a  week.  After 
that  " — he  drew  his  hand  over  his  eyes  thoughtfully 
— "  well,  we'll  see." 

Harley  shook  his  hand  in  a  transport  of  delight, 
and  M'ree  kissed  her  father,  who  was  more  moved 
thereat  than  she  was. 

Mrs.  Hutchins  lamented  that  there  was  to  be  no 
grand  public  function  and  no  chance  to  prepare 
M'ree's  trousseau,  but  for  the  second  time  in  his  life 
Tom  Hutchins  was  inexorable.  Only  two  or  three 
girl  friends  of  M'ree's,  Aunt  Hannah  and  Uncle 
George,  Judge  and  Mrs.  Rodehaver,  and  Mr.  Court 
ney  and  his  wife.  (She  always  went  along  to  fix  his 
surplice  for  him.)  M'ree  could  wear  that  mousseline 
de  sole  of  hers.  It  might  be  a  little  longer  and  not 
hurt  any,  but  it  would  have  to  do.  She  could  wear 
her  confirmation  veil.  Mr.  Hutchins  would  see  about 
getting  the  license  and  telling  the  rector. 

It  occurred  to  M'ree  the  next  day,  while  she  was 
packing  her  trunk,  that  to  slip  off  and  get  married  in 
a  hurry  was  one  thing,  and  to  be  made  to  get  mar- 


120  FOLKS    BACK    HOME 

ried  in  a  hurry  by  her  pa  was  quite  another  thing. 
Harley  was  the  ideal  romantic  lover,  but  those  awful 
boys  down  at  Marysville!  And  there  right  before  her 
in  the  bureau  drawer  was  Ed  Coffinberry's  ring,  that 
she  had  forgotten  to  send  back  to  him! 

With  her  eyes  still  wet  and  her  chest  still  jumping 
convulsively  from  her  hard  crying  spell,  she  sat  down 
and  wrote  a  note  to  Ed,  returning  the  ring.  She 
could  not  keep  it,  as  she  was  to  be  married  to  Harley 
Rodehaver  that  night.  Swimming  in  a  wave  of  re 
curring  tears,  she  added :  "  Forgive  me.  Good-by, 
forever! "  and  I  am  not  sure  but  a  drop  or  two  fell 
on  the  paper.  It  seemed  to  her  a  very  solemn  and 
responsible  thing,  and  she  was  quite  sharp  with  Sam 
when  he  whined  about  carrying  the  note,  protesting 
that  he  had  been  running  "  urnts  "  for  her  all  morn 
ing,  and  he  was  just  sick  and  tired  of  being  her  "  nig 
ger."  But  he  went,  and  in  an  astonishingly  short 
space  of  time  was  back,  breathlessly  informing  her 
that  Ed  had  given  him  a  dollar  to  run  all  the  way 
home  with  an  answer.  "  Did,  too.  Every  step — or 
prett'  near  every  step.  Is  he  comin*  to  your  wed- 
din'?" 

The  answer  entreated,  adjured,  pleaded,  implored 
that  MVee  should  come  down  to  the  bank  at  once. 
Only  he  and  Jerry,  the  messenger,  were  there;  all 
the  others  were  gone  to  lunch;  so  he  couldn't  leave, 
and  he  couldn't  wait  till  the  bank  closed  to  see  her, 


M'REE    HUTCHINS'    HUSBAND        121 

to  beg  her  pardon  for  the  way  he  had  acted  two 
weeks  ago  Sunday  night.  He  never  thought  she 
would  take  it  so  to  heart.  Oh,  he  had  been  a  brute 
to  act  so!  But  would  she  not  come  and  say  one  last 
word  of  forgiveness?  It  was  the  last  time.  (All  the 
tender  pathos  that  is  in  that  phrase,  "  the  last  time," 
overflowed  her  soul  as  she  read.)  The  awful  tidings 
had  fallen  upon  him  like  a  thunderbolt.  Oh,  forgive 
him!  Oh,  please,  please  come  at  once! 

"  Poor  man!  "  she  sighed,  and  put  her  thumb  un 
der  her  chin  and  her  forefinger  tip  against  her  teeth. 
Then  she  roused  herself  and  got  her  hat. 

"  I'm  just  going  down  to  Galbraith's  for  some 
thing,  ma,"  she  called  out,  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs. 
"  I  won't  be  but  a  minute." 

"  Well,  hurry  right  back.  You  know  you've  got 
lots  to  do,  and  Sallie  and  Nanno  have  all  they  can 
'tend  to.  And  /  can't  do  anything.  O  me!  I  wish 
your  pa  had  put  it  off  for  a  month.  So  many  things 
to  look  after! "  But  the  door  had  shut,  and  Mrs. 
Hutchins  returned  to  her  novel  with  a  sigh. 

Ed  took  her  into  the  directors'  room.  She  meant 
to  say  only  a  few  words,  but  before  she  knew  it  all 
the  details  of  that  horrid  Marysville  trip  were  out. 
She  was  so  thankful  that  Ed  didn't  see  anything  to 
laugh  at  in  it.  If  there  had  been  one  twinkle  in  those 
grave,  reproachful  eyes  when  she  sobbed  out  how 
the  boys  had  piled  up  brickbats  to  peep  in  at  them, 


122  FOLKS   BACK    HOME 

she  would  have  just  hated  him.  Ed  might  not  be  so 
romantic  as  Harley,  but  he  would  never  do  anything 
ridiculous.  There  was  something  so  protecting  in 
Ed,  and  then  he  looked  at  her  so,  and  the  next  thing 
'  was,  Jerry  was  off  to  Judge  Rodehaver's  office  with 
a  note  for  Harley,  saying  that  it  was  all  a  terrible 
mistake.  She  could  never  marry  him.  And  for  him 
please  not  to  call. 

Dr.  Avery  had  gone  away,  and  Mrs.  Hutchins 
was  resting  easier.  M'ree  had  locked  herself  up  in 
her  room.  The  storm  of  Mr.  Hutchins'  anger  had 
spent  itself,  and  he  sat  by  his  wife's  bedside  rocking 
and  reading  over  and  over  again  the  account  in  the 
Evening  Examiner  from  the  pen  of  the  gifted  Han- 
nigan,  telling  how  "  the  hand  of  the  beautiful  and 
accomplished  Miss  Marie  Hutchins,  the  acknowl 
edged  belle  of  Minuca  Center,  had  been  won  by  one 
of  the  most  talented  young  limbs  of  the  law,  Mr. 
Harley  Rodehaver,  who  has  recently  come  into  our 
midst."  The  Marysville  trip  was  there,  tricked  out 
in  all  the  tawdry  splendor  of  Laura  Jean  Libbey  and 
Bartlett's  "  Familiar  Quotations."  At  the  end  was 
the  announcement  that  "  the  nuptial  ceremonies 
were  to  be  consummated  this  evening  by  Reverend 
Courtney,  rector  of  St.  John's  P.  E.  Church,  at  the 
palatial  residence  of  the  bride's  father,  on  South  Mad 
River  Street,  Colonel  Thomas  P.  Hutchins."  All  that 


M'REE   HUTCHINS'    HUSBAND        123 

was  bad  enough,  but  now —  He  groaned  and  looked 
at  his  wife,  who  was  quietly  sleeping.  Sulphonal  had 
brought  surcease  of  sorrow  for  her.  Everybody 
would  read  that  and  crow  over  it,  and  the  next  day 
they  would  find  out  what  M'ree  had  done,  and  they 
would  crow  more  than  ever.  He  would  be  ashamed 
to  look  people  in  the  face.  And  then  he  remembered 
with  a  jerk  that  Hannigan  was  the  Enquirer  cor 
respondent  and  would  just  spread  himself.  It  wasn't 
often  he  got  such  a  chance.  The  red  and  sullen  flush 
of  shame  mantled  his  face  and  met  upon  his  neck 
as  he  thought  how  not  only  his  own  townsmen  but 
all  that  knew  him  commercially  and  politically  in 
Ohio,  Indiana,  and  Kentucky,  would  read  the  flam 
ing  story.  He  was  able  to  see,  clairvoyantly,  low, 
lecherous  sots  bandying  his  daughter's  name  in  bar 
rooms  and  cackling  the  falsetto  laugh  that  men  use 
at  certain  times.  His  fists  clinched.  She  was  a  good 
girl,  kind  to  her  mother  and  all  that.  Nobody  could 
say  a  word  against  her  character.  Not  a  word.  And 
that  she  should  have  brought  this  humiliation  upon 
his  name!  He  had  been  so  proud  of  her.  What  pos 
sessed  the  girl  to  go  and  act  that  way? 

And  now  he  had  to  get  up  some  kind  of  a  lie 
to  tell  the  folks  when  they  came.  He  wasn't  much 
used  to  lying,  and  a  cold  sickness  assailed  the  pit 
of  his  stomach  as  he  thought  of  himself  standing  be 
fore  those  prying,  doubting  eyes,  eager  to  put  the 


i24  FOLKS    BACK    HOME 

worst  construction  on  everything.  He  knew  they 
would  not  believe  him  then;  he  knew  they  would 
find  him  out  when  the  Enquirer  came  up  on  No.  i 
and  everybody  bought  it.  But  he  couldn't  tell  them 
the  truth  now.  He  couldn't  face  them  and  say  what 
a  fool  his  daughter  had  made  of  herself  and  of 
him. 

He  heard  Uncle  George  and  Aunt  Hannah  come 
in,  Uncle  George  with  his  loud,  boisterous  voice,  and 
Aunt  Hannah  telling  Sallie  she  had  brought  her 
apron  so  she  could  help  with  the  things.  He  heard 
Minnie  De  Wees  explain  to  Nanno  that  she  had 
come  early  so  as  to  run  over  the  wedding  march  on 
their  piano,  and  a  stray  note  or  two  floated  up  the 
stairs  as  she  fingered  the  keys  with  the  soft  pedal 
on.  He  tried  to  think  what  he  should  say,  to  learn 
it  by  heart.  He  had  just  thought  it  might  do  to 
tell  them  that,  on  account  of  her  ma's  delicate 
health,  M'ree  had  decided  not  to  leave  her  for  the 
present,  when  he  heard  the  shrill  chirrup  of  girls' 
voices  and  the  ponderous  orotund  of  Mr.  Courtney's 
Anglo-Buckeye  accent  in  all  its  "  powurrrrr  and 
commaundment,"  choiring  antiphonally  their  mu 
tual  surprise  at  meeting  at  the  gate.  Then  Nanno 
called  up:  "  Misther  Hootchins!  Oo're  wanted, 
plase." 

A  cold  sweat  broke  out  on  him.  He  nerved  himself 
and  went  down  the  stairs  as  one  goes  to  the  gallows. 


M'REE    HUTCHINS'    HUSBAND        125 

"  How  do  I  look,  John?  "  asked  Mrs.  Rodehaver, 
when  the  judge  came  home.  "  Do  you  think  this  old 
black  silk  will  do  to  go  in?  They're  such  bigbugs. 
I  got  kind  of  a  cold  piece  ready.  I  thought  it 
wouldn't  do  to  go  there  ravenous  hungry.  Set  up, 
now,  and  then  hurry  and  get  yourself  ready.  W'y, 
what's  the  matter?  What  makes  you  look  at  me  so 
funny?  " 

"Didn't  Harley  tell  you?" 

"W'y,  no!  Tell  me  what?  He  come  in  and  went 
right  up  to  his  room.  O  John,  is  anything  wrong? 
Has  he  been  doin'  anything?  O  John,  if  he  has,  I'll 
never  git  over  it.  He's  been  like  my  own  son  to  me." 

"  Harley's  all  right.  It's  her." 

"  Why,  what  do  you  mean?  " 

"  She's  backed  out." 

"Aw!" 

"  Yes,  sir.  Says  it's  all  a  turrable  mistake,  and  she 
don't  want  to  see  him  no  more.  Harley  showed  it 
to  me." 

"Well,  I'm  jist  glad  of  it.  Now!  She'd  'a'  never 
done  for  him.  Never." 

"  Dad-blamed  little  hussy!  I'd  like  to  smack  her!  " 

"  Oh,  well,  now,  John,  mebby  it's  all  for  the  best. 
She  never  would  V  done  for  him.  I  seen  that  from 
the  start." 

"  Don't  I  know  that?  It's  the  best  thing  could  V 
happened.  But " 


126  FOLKS    BACK    HOME 

"  I  thought  he  looked  turrable  downhearted  when 
he  come  in,  but,  thinks  I " 

"  Vine,  I  want  you  should  go  talk  to  him.  I  was 
goin'  to,  but  it  ain't  no  jury  case,  and  I'd  git  it  all 
hindside  before.  You  better  do  it."  He  began  to 
walk  the  floor  with  his  hands  behind  him.  "  Viney," 
he  said,  "  it's  the  turnin'-point  in  his  life,  if  he  only 
can  see  it.  He  was  a  boy  yesterday;  he's  a  man  to 
day.  He's  ben  a-dreamin';  he's  awake  now.  He  thinks 
his  heart  is  broke  because  she  won't  have  him. 
Well,  now,  that  ain't  it  at  all.  No,  sir.  He's  ben  actin' 
the  gilly,  with  all  this  calf  love,  and  now  he  sees  it, 
and  jist  because  he's  got  the  real,  high-strung  na 
ture  in  him,  he's  mortified  to  death.  Ah!  These  here 
men  that  never  act  the  fool  and  never  do  anything 
to  be  ashamed  of,  I  got  no  use  for  'em.  I  wouldn't 
give  a  damn  for  'em!  " 

"John!" 

"  No,  sir,  I  wouldn't.  Viney,  do  you  know,  I  was 
afraid  he  wouldn't  git  into  a  scrape  like  this  till  it 
was  too  late!  It's  like  the  measles — goes  hard  with 
you  if  you  ketch  it  when  you're  growed  up.  W'y, 
Viney,  I  never  see  anybody  with  such  a  head  for  the 
law  business  as  that  boy  has.  Wonderful!  I  knowed 
he'd  do  well  enough  when  it  come  to  office  practice, 
but  I  wanted  him  to  be  strong  before  a  jury.  Now 
he  kin  be.  He's  suffered.  I  ackshilly  worried  about 
him  for  fear  he'd  git  to  be  thirty-five  or  forty  and 


M'REE    HUTCHINS'    HUSBAND        127 

then  git  struck  after  some  fool  girl  like  this  one. 
Oh,  it's  the  best  thing  could  V  happened!  Bless  the 
Lord!  I'm  damn'  glad  of  it!" 

"  W'y,  John!  I  don't  know  what's  come  over  you, 
talkin'  like  that!" 

"  You  tell  him,  jist  as  easy  as  you  kin,  Vine,  'at 
he  don't  want  no  pretty  poppet  for  a  wife.  He  wants 
a  woman."  He  drew  her  withered  bosom  to  his  and 
kissed  her  wrinkled  forehead.  "  He  wants  a  woman 
that's  got  good  sense  and  a  faithful,  lovin'  heart; 
that'll  be  to  him  what  you've  ben  to  me  all  these 
years,  Viney." 

"  Oh,  I " 

"  What  'u'd  'a'  ever  become  o'  me,  only  for  you?  " 
he  asked.  His  chin  trembled.  The  lovelight  of  by 
gone  years  relumed  his  eyes.  "  Lord!  "  he  said  chok 
ingly,  and  stroked  her  thin  locks. 

"  Do  you  mind  how  we  looked  up  your  verse, 
Viney?  You  know  you  was  born  on  the  eleventh  of 
the  month.  '  She  shall  do  him  good  and  not  evil  all 
the  days  of  her  life.'  Well,  you  have,  you  have.  I'd 
kind  o'  like  Harley  to  git  a  wife  like  that."  He  stood 
silent  awhile,  and  then  said,  as  steadily  as  he  could: 
"  Don't  he  ever  make  you  think  o'  Johnnie,  or  what 
he'd  'a'  ben  if  we'd  'a'  raised  him?  He  does  me." 

"  O  pap ! "  she  cried,  and  trembled  all  over. 
"  Had  you  noticed  it,  too?  " 

"  Well,  mother,"  he  said,  when  he  had  drawn  a 


128  FOLKS    BACK    HOME 

long,  quivering  breath — they  had  not  used  those 
names  to  each  other  for  many  a  year — "  well,  moth 
er,  I  expect  you  better  go  up  and  talk  to  him.  Kind 
o' — kind  o'  go  easy  with  him,  I  would.  Jist  the  same 
as  if  he  was  Johnnie." 

He  heard  her  climb  the  stairs,  slow  and  clumsy 
with  age.  She  entered  the  room  where  the  young 
man  sat  at  the  table  in  the  gloom,  with  his  cheek  dis 
torted  by  the  pressure  of  the  hand  he  leaned  against. 
The  judge  heard  the  fluty  notes  of  her  old  voice,  and, 
after  a  long  talk,  a  plangent  word  or  two  in  the  deep, 
vibrant  notes  of  the  youth.  His  answers  came  more 
frequently  as  the  soft  voice  went  on.  Then  there  was 
the  bell-like  tone  of  the  pitcher  striking  the  wash 
bowl,  and  the  plash  of  water.  The  old  judge  smiled. 

"  I  put  the  teakittle  on  for  you,  mother/'  he  said, 
when  they  came  downstairs.  "  I  see  the  s'preme 
court  has  reversed  the  ruling  of  the  lower  court  in 
the  Lohmeyer  case.  I  thought  'twould  be  about  that 
way.  You  see" — and  he  went  on,  as  if  the  Lohmeyer 
case  was  the  only  thing  on  earth, 

But  at  bedtime  he  put  out  his  hand  to  Harley  and 
said:  "  Your  career's  all  before  you  now.  By  George! 
I  woosh  'twas  me.  S'posin'  you'd  'a'  got  her,  what 
Vd  you  'a'  ben?  Nothin'  in  the  world  but  M'ree 
Hutchins'  husband." 

I  hear  she  has  been  engaged  to  four  or  five  since 
she  broke  off  with  Ed  Coffinberry  the  last  time. 


THE   WARNING 

WELL,  I  don't  know,"  said  Almeda  Carey, 
as  she  bit  off  the  end  of  the  thread  and 
twisted  it  into  a  point  for  the  eye  of  her 
needle;  "  they's  a  good  many  things  'at  we  can't  ac 
count  for,  but  I  don't  know.  I  ain't  one  o'  them  that 
says  that  when  you're  dead  that's  the  last  of  you, 
but  I  believe  that  if  a  body's  gone  to  the  Good 
Place,  look  like  to  me  they  wouldn't  want  to  come 
back,  and  if  they're  gone  to  the  Bad  Place,  why, 
they  couldn't  git  back.  How  was  you  thinkin'  o' 
havin'  it  made?  " 

"Why,  I  don't  know.  How  would  you?  I  b'lieve 
I'll  have  the  front  of  it  shirred.  I  seen  old  lady 
Parker  with  her  new  waist  that  way,  and  I  thought 
it  looked  right  becomin'.  I  priced  that  black-and- 
white  taffety  down  to  Galbraith's  a  week  ago  yes 
terday  when  I  was  gettin'  the  wrapper  I  sent  to 
Molly.  A  dollar  a  yard  it  was.  'Twould  take  about 
five  yards,  I  s'pose." 

"  No,"  responded  Almeda,  "  not  now  no  more.  I 
should  think  about  four  yards  would  do  you.  Four 

129 


130  FOLKS    BACK    HOME 

and  a  quarter  would  be  full  as  much  as  you'd  need. 
Stripe  or  check? " 

"  Check,"  said  Mrs.  Coulter,  pausing  in  her  medi 
tative  rocking  to  look  around.  "  Your  fashion  paper 
come  yet?  I  thought  mebby  if  it  had  you  could  show 
me  about  how  you'd  make  it;  but  never  mind.  You 
know  'bout  what  I  want — something  kind  o'  stylish 
and  yet  not  too  flirty.  Pa  he  alwus  wants  me  to  dress 
real  gay,  but  I  tell  him  anybody  that's  a  grand 
mother,  or  as  good  as  one " 

"  How  is  Molly?  " 

"  I  got  a  letter  from  her  yesterday,  and  she  said 
she  was  real  well,  but  very  anxious  for  me  to  get 
down  to  Columbus  so  as  to  be  there  in  good  season. 
And  I  thought  if  you  could  get  the  waist  done  in 
time  I'd  wear  it  down  there.  I  feel  awful  worried  for 
the  poor  child.  Night  before  last  I  had  a  ringin'  in 
my  ear,  and  you  know  they  used  to  say  that  was  a 
sign  they'd  be  a  death  in  the  family  before  long, 
and  I  just  wondered  if  that  was  for  Molly.  Wouldn't 
it  be  terrible  if  she  was  to  be  taken  away  right  now? 
I  believe  it  would  just  about  kill  Jim.  He  thinks  the 
world  an'  all  o'  her." 

"Aw,  pshaw!  Elnora,  you  ain't  at  yourself!"  re 
proved  the  dressmaker,  hitching  her  chair  closer  to 
the  window.  "  The  days  is  gittin'  lots  shorter,  ain't 
they?  " 

"  Yes,"  sighed  Mrs.  Coulter.  "  I  alwus  dread  to 


THE  WARNING  131 

have  fall  come.  It's  so  gloomy.  Dark  days  this  time 
o'  year  gives  me  the  blues  the  worst  way.  Look  like 
the  sky  kind  o'  glowers  at  you,  much  as  to  say: 
'  Whutch  you  doin'  hyer,  anyways?  Whut  right  'a' 
you  got  to  look  up?  '  I  feel  kind  o'  like  hunchin'  up 
my  shoulders  to  dodge  the  lick." 

"  Aw,  well,  now,  I  wouldn't  give  way  that  way, 
Elnora,"  said  Almeda  soothingly.  "  I  wouldn't  borry 
no  troubles,  i£  I  was  you.  We're  all  in  the  hands  of 
the  Good  Man  and  He  knows  what's  best  fer  each 
an'  all  of  us.  Molly's  a  strong,  healthy  girl  and  she'll 
be  all  right.  If  I  was  you  I  wouldn't  worry  one  speck. 
Don't  you  think  that's  a  pretty  tol'able  high  price 
for  that  taffety?  I  seen  some  black-and-white  check 
in  to  Rosenthal's  fer  eighty-nine  cents." 

"Yes,  I  looked  at  that,  but  it's  so  kind  o'  slazy; 
and,  anyways,  if  I  go  down  to  Columbus  I  want  to 
go  lookin'  nice  and  feelin'  nice — feelin'  as  if  it  was 
good  goods  I  was  wearin'." 

"  Well,"  said  Almeda  Carey,  and  bit  off  another 
length  of  thread,  "  we've  all  got  to  go  when  our 
time  comes,  warnin'  or  no  warnin'.  I've  heard  a 
heap  about  folks  appearin'  to  their  friends  fur  away 
just  as  they  was  leavin'  the  body,  and  to  hear  old 
Mis'  Doctor  Cooper  talk  you'd  think  it  was  an 
everyday  occurrence  for  them  that's  gone  before  to 
come  back;  but  I  take  notice  they  hain't  none  of  'em 
come  back  for  me.  I  woosh't  they  had.  I'd  just  give 


i32  FOLKS    BACK    HOME 

anything  if  he  could  V  come  back  and  told  me  what 
ever  became  of  him,  whether  he  was  killed  on  the 
field  of  battle  or  died  in  one  o'  them  prisons,  or  what. 
Seems  like,  for  a  while  there,  I  jist  couldn't  hardly 
stand  it  to  be  kept  in  suspense  with  nothin'  to  do 
but  wait  and  wait  and  wait,  not  knowin'  anything 
about  him  but  jist  what  the  Republican  said — '  Miss- 
in'.'  I  used  to  beg  and  pray  the  Good  Man  to  let 
him  come  back  to  me,  if  it  was  only  for  a  minute. 
But  he  never  did.  Seems  like  it  wasn't  to  be/' 

The  withered  old  mantuamaker  leaned  back  in 
her  chair  and  looked  out  into  the  gray  November 
landscape.  Its  shadows  darkened  fast,  but  she  looked 
back  to  youth,  where  it  is  always  sunny,  and  beheld 
again  that  morning  in  the  spring  of  '62  with  its 
light  winking  and  glittering  on  the  bayonets  of  the 
Ninety-seventh  Ohio,  swinging  to  the  tune  of  "  The 
girl  I  left  behind  me,"  on  its  way  down  to  the  old 
B.  &  I.  depot,  and  one  bright,  smiling  face  with  shin 
ing  brown  hair  curling  out  from  under  a  jaunty  cap. 
She  had  an  old  daguerreotype  of  him  in  his  soldier 
clothes  and  a  lock  of  that  curling  hair,  three  letters, 
and  a  clipping  containing  the  words,  "  George  D. 
Batchelder,  missing  " — and  that  was  all,  all  except 
the  memory  of  a  great  grief. 

"  And  the  night  before  old  Squire  Nicholls  died," 
she  wakened  to  hear  Elnora  saying,  "  you  know  Mis' 
Nicholls  telegraphed  to  the  two  boys  to  come,  and 


THE  WARNING  133 

Jennie  come  up  from  Dresden,  and  the  old  squire  he 
was  so  provoked  at  them  fer  comin'  and  spendin'  all 
that  money  on  railroad  fares.  He  said  he  was  all 
right,  only  a  little  under  the  weather,  and  ackshilly 
got  up  and  out  o'  bed  and  smoked  a  cigar  with  Hen 
to  show  how  well  he  was.  And  after  they  went  to 
bed  and  Mis'  Nicholls  was  settin'  up  with  him,  'long 
about  twelve  o'clock  there  come  three  raps — 
sounded  like  it  was  on  the  foot  of  the  bed — and  she 
says,  '  Pap,  did  you  hear  that? '  And  he  was  kind 
o'  dozin',  but  he  opened  his  eyes  and  says:  'Yes,' 
he  says,  '  I  did,  Lizzie.  They've  come  for  me.  Call 
the  children.'  And  'long  about  four  o'clock  he  died. 
And  Emerson's  dog  howled  all  night  long  right  un 
der  their  window.  They  say  it  was  terrible." 

The  white  eyeballs  of  Marilla  Andrews,  Miss 
Carey's  apprentice,  shone  in  the  gloom.  In  the 
silence  that  followed  the  two  women  could  hear  the 
girl  fetch  a  long  breath  and  let  it  go  in  a  trembling 
sigh. 

"  Marilla,  I  woosh't  you'd  light  the  light,"  said 
Almeda,  "  and  whilst  you're  up  you  might  go  out  to 
the  coal  house  and  bring  in  a  bucket  o'  coal.  The  fire 
is  gittin'  low.  Take  the  kitchen  lamp  with  you;  I 
would." 

After  the  girl  had  gone  out  Almeda  said  to  Mrs. 
Coulter:  "  She's  the  scariest  thing  I  ever  saw  in  my 
born  days.  She's  plumb  afraid  of  the  dark  as  any 


134  FOLKS    BACK    HOME 

little  young  one.  Course  I  had  to  have  somebody 
with  me,  livin'  all  alone  this  way,  but,  lawsadaisy! 
come  good  and  dark  she's  all  on  strings.  Might  as 
well  have  nobody  at  all.  You  didn't  want  a  high  col 
lar  to  that  waist,  did  you,  Elnora?  " 

"  Land!  How'd  I  look  with  one  on?  Never  did 
have  any  neck  to  speak  of,  and  now't  I'm  gittin' — 
My  Lord!  'Mede,  what's  that?" 

The  outer  door  of  the  sitting  room  in  which  they 
were  opened  slowly  and  swung  inward.  Mrs.  Coulter 
sank  back  in  her  chair  with  an  "  Oh! "  Almeda  got 
up  and  shut  the  door. 

"  Plague  the  thing!"  she  said.  "  Jist  here  lately 
it's  taken  to  actin'  up.  Least  little  jar  it  flies  open. 
Every  time  I  think  I'll  shorely  have  that  ketch  fixed 
and  I  keep  forgittin'  it.  Shirring  you  said  you  wanted 
across  the  front,  didn't  you?  Why,  what's  the  mat 
ter,  Elnora?  Ain't  you  feelin'  well?" 

"  I  had  a  kind  of  distress  right  here,"  answered 
Mrs.  Coulter,  putting  her  hand  to  her  heart  and 
leaning  back  with  her  eyes  closed. 

"  Don't  you  want  I  should  get  you  something?  I 
got  some  real  good  whisky  in  the  house.  Mebbe  if 
you  was  to  take  a  little  sup  you'd  feel  better." 

"  No.  No.  No,  thank  you.  No,  I'll  be  over  it  in 
a  minute.  It  never  lasts  but  a  little  while.  There.  It's 
gone  now.  Well  really  I  must  be  gettin'  along.  It's 
most  supper  time  now  and  pa'll  be  home,  and  that 


THE  WARNING  135 

hired  girl  o'  mine  ain't  worth  her  salt.  You  know 
that  china  sugar  bowl  o'  mine  that  Aunt  Emmeline 
gimme?  Oh,  yes,  you  do  too;  the  one  with  the  gilt 
flowers  on  it.  Well,  sir,  she  broke  it  all  to  flinders  and 
I  wouldn't  have  had  it  happen  for  a  pretty.  Oh,  yes, 
I'm  lots  better." 

The  two  friends  moved  to  the  front  door  and  lin 
gered  there  chatting  for  a  while,  the  poor  little  old 
dressmaker  and  Silas  Coulter's  wife,  she  that  was 
Elnora  Potter.  From  some  trivial  thing,  Mrs.  Coul 
ter  broke  off  to  say:  "  Almeda,  you  an'  me  has  been 
thicker'n  Cherry  an'  Brindle  ever  since  we  was  little 
girls  and  played  '  keep  house '  together.  Of  course 
I  got  Silas,  but  he's  a  man,  and  now,  since  Molly's 
married  and  gone  to  live  at  Columbus,  seems  like 
they  ain't  nobody  so  near  to  me  as  what  you  are. 
Le's  make  it  up  that  whichever  one  of  us  is  called 
first  shall  come  and  tell  the  other." 

"  Why,  what  made  you  think  of  that,  Elnora?  " 

"  I  don't  know.  It  just  kind  of  come  into  my  head. 
Will  you?  I  will,  if  you  will." 

"  I  will  if  I  can,"  promised  Almeda,  and  gave  her 
hand  upon  it. 

"  Well,  then,  it's  a  bargain,"  said  Mrs.  Coulter, 
and,  moved  by  a  sudden  impulse,  she  pulled  the 
mantuamaker  to  her  and  kissed  her. 

"Why,  Elnora!  Look  out  what  you're  doing! 
Now,  what  if  you  should  ha'  knocked  that  lamp  out 


i36  FOLKS    BACK    HOME 

o'  my  hand!  We  might  both  of  us —  Marilla'll 
think  I  got  a  beau.  When  did  you  want  the  waist 
done?  " 

"  Lemme  see.  This  is  Thursday.  If  I  should  bring 
you  the  goods  to-morrow  d'you  s'pose  you  could  get 
it  made  up  in  a  week?  " 

"  In  a  week,"  mused  Almeda.  "  There's  that  suit 
of  Mrs.  Avery's  I  promised  for  Thursday,  and  that 
dress  o' — but  that  can  wait.  Yes,  I  guess  so.  A  week 
from  to-day.  All  right.  Can  you  see  the  steps?  Well, 
good  night." 

She  held  up  the  lamp  so  that  Mrs.  Coulter  could 
see  to  get  down  the  ten  steps  to  the  street  level,  and 
then  shut  and  locked  the  parlor  door.  As  she  came 
out  into  the  sitting  room  the  side  door  slowly  swung 
open. 

"  Plague  take  that  door!  "  she  said  peevishly,  as 
she  slammed  and  bolted  it.  "  Marilla,  remind  me  of 
it  to  have  that  ketch  fixed.  It  gives  me  the  all-overs 
flyin'  open  that  way.  I  think  sure  it's  somebody  corn- 
in*  in.  Well,  what'll  we  have  for  supper?  " 

Next  afternoon  Mrs.  Coulter  brought  the  taffeta 
and  Almeda  cut  out  the  lining,  basted  it  together, 
and  fitted  it. 

"  Now  I  can  have  it  ready  to  try  on  you  Mon 
day,"  she  said.  "  When  you  goin'  to  Columbus?  " 

"  I  wrote  I'd  be  down  Friday  morning,  no  pre 
venting  Providence.  I  sent  her  a  piece  of  the  goods. 


THE  WARNING  137 

Now  I  don't  want  you  should  overwork  on  my  ac 
count,  but  if  you  could  get  it  done  so's  I  could  wear 
it  Friday,  why —  Looks  right  nice,  don't  it?  " 

"  Well,  you  be  in  on  Monday  to  try  on.  How  you 
feelin'?"  ' 

"  Why,  I'm  well  enough." 

But  when  Monday  came,  Lide  Strayer,  and  her 
mother  from  DeGraff,  called  and  stayed  to  tea,  and 
Mrs.  Coulter  could  not  leave.  Almeda  was  going  to 
send  Marilla  up  with  the  waist,  but  old  Aunt  Libby 
Nicholson  brought  in  a  dress  pattern,  and  she  was 
so  particular  and  such  a  talker  that  she  took  up  the 
whole  afternoon  of  both  women.  Mrs.  Avery  sent 
word  to  be  sure  and  have  her  suit  ready  by  Thurs 
day,  as  George  was  going  to  the  meeting  of  the 
Ohio  State  Medical  Society  up  to  Cleveland  and 
wanted  her  to  go  along;  so  if  the  dressmaker's  lamps 
burned  far  into  the  night  there  was  good  reason 
for  it. 

When  Mrs.  Coulter  came  next  day  she  said  she 
had  received  a  letter  from  Molly  and  she  thought 
the  goods  was  just  lovely  and  that  they  looked  for 
her  Friday  morning  sure,  and  for  her  not  to  fail 
them.  Jim  would  be  at  the  Union  Depot  to  meet 
her. 

"  But  do  you  know — I  declare  I'm  gettin'  kind 
o'  foolish — I'm  jist  bound  I  won't  go  without  that 
waist.  Ain't  it  pretty?  That  shirrin'  '11  set  it  off,  too, 


138  FOLKS    BACK    HOME 

won't  it?  Do  you  think  it's  jist  right  in  the  back? 
Seems  to  me  it's  kind  o' " 

Marilla  was  a  first-rate  girl,  or  would  have  been 
if  she  didn't  get  to  talking  sometimes  and  do  things 
wrong  end  to  and  never  find  it  out  till  she  was  nearly 
done,  and  then  have  to  rip  it  all  out  again.  There 
were  a  good  many  little  annoyances  of  one  kind 
or  another,  so  it  was  just  at  dusk  Thursday  even 
ing  that  Almeda  got  around  to  Mrs.  Coulter's 
waist. 

"  I  wish  Elnora  hadn't  set  her  heart  so  on  that 
shirrin',"  she  said  to  Marilla.  "  It's  such  slow  work. 
If  it  was  tucks,  now,  I  could  do  it  on  the  machine 
in  no  time.  Ah!  "  She  bent  herself  backward  to  rest 
her  tired  muscles.  "  This  settin'  up  every  night  and 
every  night  ain't  what  it's  cracked  up  to  be.  I  wish 
you'd  light  the  other  lamp  too,  Marilla,  whilst  you're 
about  it.  I  want  all  the  light  I  can  git  on  this  fine 
stitchin'.  You  needn't  do  any  more  now.  You  done 
enough  for  one  day.  See  what  kind  of  a  supper  you 
can  get  up.  And,  Marilla,  make  the  tea  extry  strong. 
I  got  to  set  up  till  this  thing's  done." 

As  she  sat  stitching  away,  the  brilliant  contrast 
of  the  black  and  white  made  her  tired  eyes  burn  as 
if  for  sleep.  She  passed  her  hand  over  them,  and  was 
just  gathering  up  the  goods  anew  upon  her  needle 
when  the  side  door  suddenly  opened  and  Mrs.  Coul 
ter  stepped  in. 


THE    WARNING  139 

"  Why,  Elnora  Potter!  How  you  scared  me!" 
cried  Almeda. 

"  I  ain't  got  but  a  minute  to  stay.  I  must  hurry 
right  home.  Mercy!  Comin'  up  them  steps  o'  yourn 
just  about  finishes  me.  I  dropped  in  to  see  how  you 
was  gettin'  along  with  my  waist.  Why,  you  ain't 
got  it  near  done,  have  you?  " 

"  O  my,  yes.  They  ain't  much  more.  They's  just 
this  shirrin',  an*  some  finishin'  up  to  do  around  the 
bottom,  and  put  the  sleeves  in,  an'  a  few  little  things. 
I  was  held  back  a  good  deal  by  Mrs.  Avery's  suit. 
When  do  you  start?  " 

"  I  was  going  on  the  10.40,  but  if  you " 

"  Oh,  well,  now,  don't  you  worry.  I'll  finish  it  if  I 
live,  and  if  I  don't  live — I'll  come  and  tell  you.  I'll 
send  it  up  to  you  by  Marilla  the  first  thing  in  the 
morning.  Before  nine  o'clock,  anyhow." 

"  Now,  you'll  be  sure?  " 

"  Oh,  I'll  set  up  till  I  git  it  done." 

"  I  hate  to  think  of  you  doin'  that  on  my  account. 
I  could  go  on  the  afternoon  train,  but  I  told  them 
to  look  for  me —  But  we  could  telegraph  'em! " 

"  No,  I  wouldn't  do  that.  If  Molly  was  to  see  a 
telegram  and  get  a  sudden  scare,  you  don't  know 
what  might  happen.  No,  I'll  set  up  and  finish  it. 
Why,  they  ain't  hardly  nothin'  to  do!  I've  set  up 
many's  the  night  before  this,  an'  will,  I  guess,  as 
long's  I  can  see  to  thread  a  needle." 


i4o  FOLKS    BACK    HOME 

"  Well,  all  right,  if  you  can.  I'll  run  along  now. 
Land!  Don't  it  get  dark  quick  now?  Good  night!" 

After  supper,  Almeda  set  to  work  with  all  her 
might,  once  in  a  while  dropping  a  word  to  Marilla, 
but  for  the  most  part  silently  attacking  the  task, 
which  was  greater  than  she  had  given  Elnora  Coul 
ter  to  suppose. 

"  Well,  I  should  say  you  did  make  the  tea  extry 
strong,  Marilla.  'Twould  take  the  bark  off  a  white 
oak.  .  .  .  My!  This  black  and  white  hurts  my  eyes 
like  all  get-out.  ...  I  guess  I'll  leave  the  shirrin' 
to  the  very  last,  and  if  it  comes  to  the  worst,  I'll  do 
it  the  first  thing  in  the  morning  by  daylight." 

"  Can't  I  help  you,  Miss  Carey?  "  asked  Marilla. 

"  No.  You  done  enough  for  to-day.  Why  don't 
you  go  to  bed?  Settin'  up  this  way!  You  ought  to 
be  ashamed  of  yourself,  an'  you  dead  for  sleep." 

"  Up  there  in  the  dark  all  by  myself?  "  whined 
the  girl. 

"  O  fudge!  What  is  there  to  be  afraid  of?" 

"Hark!"  whispered  Marilla. 

"  That's  only  Mumma's  dog  howlin',"  sniffed  Al 
meda,  and  returned  to  her  work. 

"  They  say  it's  a  sign  somebody's  goin*  to  die 
when  a  dog  howls  that  way." 

"  Well,  I  guess  that's  so.  Somebody's  dyin*  every 
minute.  You  oughtn't  to  pay  any  attention  to  such 
foolishness." 


THE    WARNING  141 

The  girl  made  an  inarticulate  protest  and  curled 
herself  on  the  lounge.  Presently,  overcome  by  fa 
tigue  and  the  late  hours  for  the  three  nights  previ 
ous,  she  fell  asleep,  and  Miss  Carey,  looking  up  as 
she  threaded  her  needle,  forbore  to  waken  her.  It 
was  some  company  to  hear  the  tired  girl's  regular 
breathing. 

As  it  grew  late  the  footsteps  of  passers-by  became 
rarer  and  rarer,  and  finally  ceased.  The  sounds  of 
daylight  and  human  activity  hushed,  and  in  their 
stead  came  the  sounds  of  the  night  and  that  activity 
which  we  fear  is  human,  either  in  the  flesh  or  out 
of  it:  the  furtive  snapping  of  the  woodwork  yielding 
to  the  pressure  of  an  unseen  foot;  the  creak  of  the 
shutter  crying  lonesomely;  the  squeaking  of  the 
leafless  boughs  chafing  one  another  in  the  night 
wind  that  now  wailed  pitifully  through  a  chink  in  the 
door,  and  now  hushed  as  if  hoping  for  an  answer; 
that  frightened  scurry  and  shriek  of  the  mice  scram 
bling  behind  the  plastering;  the  rattle  of  a  bit  of 
mortar  falling  down  the  chimney.  The  lights  in  the 
houses  about  disappeared.  Here  one  vanished,  there 
another,  until  at  last  the  only  radiance  in  all  Minuca 
Center  shone  through  the  window  of  the  house 
where  one  woman  slept,  and  another  thudded  with 
the  machine  or  whipped  her  hand  out  rhythmically 
with  the  sure  movement  of  the  deft  seamstress,  fend 
ing  off  momently  the  wolf  that  momently  returned. 


142  FOLKS    BACK   HOME 

Each  hour  the  bell  of  the  flax  factory  sounded  more 
clearly  as  the  watchman  told  the  passing  night.  As 
the  twelve  strokes  began,  the  seamstress  paused. 

"  I  don't  believe  but  what  I  could  get  that  shirring 
done  to-night,  after  all,"  she  said  softly  to  herself, 
leaning  back  and  looking  at  her  work.  Stepping 
noiselessly,  she  tiptoed  out  into  the  kitchen  and  got 
a  tumbler  from  the  cupboard,  slipped  the  bolt  of  the 
side  door,  and  went  out  to  the  well.  She  let  the 
bucket  down  and,  while  it  rilled,  stood  looking  at 
the  night.  It  was  strangely  dark  and  still.  No  star 
shone.  The  sky  hung  low  and  sullen,  and  as  her  eyes 
relaxed  themselves  she  could  see  a  deeper  black  was 
stealing  up  the  heights  to  mid-heaven  from  the 
west.  A  faint  breath  fanned  her  cheek  a  moment, 
and  then  died  away.  There  seemed  to  be  something 
in  the  hush  that  waited  expectant.  Far,  far  off  yon 
der  somewhere  a  dog  howled  a  long  and  dreary 
howl.  A  cold  chill  went  over  her.  "  Somebody  is 
walkin'  over  my  grave,"  she  said,  and  drew  up  the 
bucket  of  cold  water,  the  chain  clucking  as  it  rolled 
up  on  the  windlass,  and  the  bucket  swung  on  the 
stone  curb. 

"My!  that's  right  out  o'  the  northwest  corner," 
she  said,  after  she  had  drunk. 

She  shut  the  door,  put  the  glass  away,  and  tip 
toed  back  to  her  work.  Manila  moved  uneasily  from 
time  to  time  and  muttered  in  her  sleep.  At  last  Al- 


THE    WARNING  143 

meda  was  on  the  last  row  of  the  shirring.  The  black 
and  white  stung  her  eyes,  but  it  was  almost  done 
now.  She  would  send  Marilla  up —  The  door  opened 
suddenly.  She  looked  up.  There,  with  her  hand  on 
the  doorknob,  stood  Elnora  Coulter. 

"  Why,  Elnora  Coulter!  What  brings  you " 

And  even  as  she  spoke  there  was  no  one,  no  one 
but  herself  and  the  sleeping  Marilla.  Was  Elnora 
trying  to  scare  her?  She  waited,  but  there  was  noth 
ing.  She  hearkened.  There  was  no  sound  of  foot 
steps.  There  was  nothing  but  the  dog  howling  far 
off  yonder  somewhere.  A  chill  crept  over  her,  an 
awful  fear  of  something.  Mastering  it,  she  rose,  took 
the  lamp  in  her  hand,  and  went  to  the  door.  There 
was  no  one.  The  whole  world  seemed  to  be  holding 
its  breath,  intently  listening. 

"Elnora!"  she  called. 

There  was  no  answer.  She  stepped  out  by  the  well 
and  held  the  lamp  over  her  head.  She  hearkened. 
She  could  hear  the  wick  sucking  up  the  oil.  The  hair 
of  her  head  prickled. 

"  Elnora!  "  she  called  again. 

But  none  answered.  A  sudden  gust  of  wind  puffed 
out  the  lamp  she  held.  A  blinding  flash  of  lightning 
flickered  through  a  scud  of  clouds  flying  athwart  the 
sky,  and  the  unseasonable  thunder  cracked  above 
her  head.  The  lamp  fell  from  her  hands  and  shivered 
into  bits  on  the  brick  walk.  The  tall  trees  bowed 


144  FOLKS    BACK    HOME 

themselves  under  the  fierce  gale,  and  with  a  shriek 
she  fled  into  the  house. 

"  Marilla!  "  she  cried,  and  shook  the  girl  roughly. 
"Marilla!  Wake  up!" 

The  apprentice  moaned:  "Don't  let  them  bury 
me.  Oh,  don't,  Miss  Carey.  .  .  .  Oh,  I'm  so  glad 
you  waked  me.  I  had  such  a  terrible  dream.  I 
thought  they  were  putting  me  into  a  grave,  and  it 
seemed  like " 

"Marilla!  Did  you  see  her?  " 

"  See  who?  " 

"  Elnora  Potter." 

"  Elnora — Mrs.  Coulter?  Why,  was  she  here?  No, 
I  didn't  see  her.  Why,  it's  nearly  one  o'clock!  What 
was  she " 

"  Listen  to  me.  I  was  sewing  on  her  waist,  as  wide 
awake  as  I  am  this  minute,  and  the  door  opened 
and  there  she  stood,  and  I  says  to  her:  '  Why,  El 
nora!  What  are  you  doing  here  at  this  time  o' 
night? '  and  just  as  I  spoke  to  her  she  was  gone.  I 
thought  at  first  she  was  trying  to  play  a  joke  on 
me,  and  I  took  the  light  outdoors,  but  there  wasn't 
anybody  there." 

"  O  Miss  Carey!  It  was  a  warning!  "  gasped  Ma 
rilla,  and  clutched  Almeda  frantically.  "  Oh,  I'm  so 
afraid!  I'm  so  afraid!  " 

"Hark!  What's  that?" 

It  was  the  first  pattering  downfall  of  the  raindrops. 


THE    WARNING  145 

The  storm  broke  that  had  menaced  all  night.  The 
whole  world  no  longer  held  its  breath  and  waited, 
expectant,  eagerly  listening.  And  now  the  furtive 
silence  was  filled  with  thronging  noises.  Mysterious 
footsteps  tracked  through  the  house;  beckoning  fin 
gers  tapped  on  the  window  and,  as  the  startled 
women  swiftly  turned,  as  swiftly  withdrew  into  the 
darkness;  unseen  watchers,  spying  on  their  terror, 
whispered  and  tittered.  Clutching  each  other,  rigid 
with  fear,  the  two  women  sat  till  fatigue  overpow 
ered  them,  and  the  gray  dawn  struggling  through 
the  watery  skies  made  them  look  livid  as  corpses 
tumbled  in  a  heap  in  the  dull  yellow  light  of  the 
dying  lamp. 

A  rapping  at  the  sitting-room  door  aroused  them. 
Almeda  answered  the  summons.  There  stood  Silas 
Coulter. 

"  Elnora's  dead,"  he  said,  and  his  chin  quivered. 

"  O  my  Lord!"  gasped  Almeda,  her  knees  shak 
ing.  "  I  knew  it!  I  knew  it!  " 

"  Why,  'Meda,  how  could  you?  You're  the  first 
person  I  seen.  I  come  right  here,  first  thing." 

"  I  seen  her  as  plain  as  I  see  you  right  now.  Come 
in,  come  in.  I  declare  I'm  just  so  upset  I  don't  know 
what  I'm  about,  keepin'  you  waitin'  out  in  the  rain. 
I'll  take  your  umbrella.'r 

"  How  do  you  mean  you  seen  her?  " 

"  It  was  a  little  before  one  o'clock."  He  made  a 


146  FOLKS    BACK   HOME 

movement.  "  I  was  settin'  up  sewin'  on  her  waist 
that  she  was  goin'  to  wear  to  Columbus  to-day." 

Mr.  Coulter  choked  and  moved  his  head  slowly 
from  side  to  side. 

"  No,  poor  girl!  she  won't  never  wear  it  any  place, 
an'  her  heart  was  plumb  set  on  it.  Well,  sir,  the  door 
opened  and  there  she  stood.  Now,  Silas,  you  know 
I  never  was  one  o'  them  that  goes  around  tellin' 
such  things,  and  I  never  believed  one  speck  in  'em, 
but  it's  as  true  as  I'm  settin'  here,  an'  I  says  to  her, 
'  Why,  Elnora,  what  are  you  doing  up  this  time  o' 
night?'  No,  I  didn't,  either.  Now  let  me  tell  the 
truth  about  it.  I  was  just  goin'  to  say  that,  but  I 
didn't  get  it  all  out,  and  she  was  gone.  Tchk!  tchk! 
tchk!  Tell  me  about  it.  Did  she  suffer  any?  " 

"  I  don't  know,  I  don't  know,"  he  quavered. 
"  Here  lately,  you  know,  she  has  been  havin'  them 
spells  and  was  doctorin'  fer  'em,  but  I  didn't  think 
they  was  nothin'  specially  dangerous.  It  didn't  seem 
possible.  I  was  awful  tired  last  night  when  I  went 
to  bed,  an'  all  I  know  is  that  I  waked  up  'long  about 
twelve — I  remember  hearin'  the  bell  over  to  the  flax 
factory  strike,  an'  I  counted.  She  was  up  then,  but 
I  must  'a'  fell  asleep.  'Long  toward  five  I  waked  up 
again,  an'  when  I  found  she  wasn't  there  I  felt  kind 
o'  uneasy  an'  got  up  an'  went  to  look  for  her.  She 
was  in  the  spare  room,  layin'  on  the  floor.  I  called 
to  her,  but — but  she " — something  swelled  in  his 


THE  WARNING  14? 

throat  as  if  to  strangle  him;  he  drew  in  a  long,  shak 
ing  breath — "  but  she  didn't  answer  me.  She'll  never 
answer  me  ag'in.  Oh!  Oh!  O  my  Lord!  O  my 
Lord!  what  shall  I  do?  What  shall  I  do  without  her? 
Thirty-seven  years,  Almedy  —  thirty-seven  years." 
The  sobs  burst  through  his  cramped  throat  like 
coughs.  After  a  little  he  said:  "Poor  Molly!  Poor 
Molly!  I'm  afraid  to  let  her  know.  I'm  afraid  it'll 
kill  her." 

Almeda  sat  with  her  hands  clinched  together.  The 
tears  rising  slowly  in  her  under  lids  dripped  down  her 
withered  cheeks  and  splashed  one  by  one  on  her 
knuckles,  white  with  the  intensity  of  her  grip. 

"  Ever  since  we  was  little  girls  we've  been  the 
closest  friends.  Silas,  I  hope  you  won't  think  it  hard 
that  she  should  come  to  tell  me  she  was  gone,  but 
last  week  she  said  to  me,  '  Le's  make  it  up  that 
whichever  one  of  us  is  called  first  shall  come  and  tell 
the  other.'  She  kept  her  word,  Silas,  she  kept  her 
word." 

The  waist  lay  where  it  was  until  after  the  funeral. 
Almeda  could  not  bear  to  touch  it,  or  any  other 
work,  until  then.  The  story  of  the  apparition  of  El- 
nora  Coulter  spread  over  the  town,  gathering  the 
most  marvelous  additions  as  it  went.  Almeda  sent 
for  Brother  Longfellow,  the  pastor  of  the  Center 
Street  M.  E.  Church,  which  she  attended. 


i48  FOLKS    BACK   HOME 

"  I  want  you  should  hear  the  straight  of  it  just 
the  way  it  was,"  she  said  to  him,  when  he  came, 
"  with  nothin'  added  to  it,  ner  nothin'  took  away. 
It's  no  small  thing  to  tell  the  truth;  it's  no  small 
thing,  Brother  Longfellow;  but  as  near  as  I  can  I'm 
goin'  to  do  it.  And,  Manila,  if  I  make  it  the  least 
bit  different  from  what  I  told  you  that  night,  I  want 
you  should  correct  me.  I  was  sewin'  on  Elnora  Coul 
ter's  waist  the  night  she  died,  she  expectin'  to  wear 
it  down  to  Columbus  the  next  mornin'.  It  was  close 
on  to  one  o'clock  and  I  was  settin'  by  this  work 
table.  I  had  the  big  lamp  on  it,  the  one  I  dropped 
when  the  wind  blowed  it  out  when  I  was  outside  by 
the  well. 

"The  door  opened — there!  jist  like  it's  openin' 
now.  They's  somethin'  wrong  with  the  ketch,  and  it 
comes  open  itself.  I  don't  lay  no  stress  on  the  door 
openin',  because  a  spirit  could  go  right  through  'em. 
Now,  Marilla,  you  stand  right  there.  That's  where 
Elnora  was  when  I  looked  up.  I  says  to  her —  Wait 
a  minute;  I'll  get  the  waist  and  show  you  exactly 
how  I  was." 

As  Almeda  picked  up  the  garment  she  said:  "  I 
was  as  broad  awake  as  I  am  this  minute.  See?  Here's 
the  needle  stickin'  where  I  took  the  last  stitch." 

She  stopped  and  was  silent  for  a  long  time.  The 
hand  that  held  the  waist  dropped  by  her  side.  The 
other  went  up  and  clutched  her  chin,  the  knuckles 


THE    WARNING  149 

resting  on  her  lips.  The  preacher  and  the  apprentice 
waited  fixedly  for  her  to  resume.  She  came  over  and 
sank  down  into  a  chair. 

"  Manila,  you  come  here  a  minute,"  she  said  at 
length.  "  Do  you  see  anything  about  them  last  few 
stitches?  " 

"Why,  Miss  Carey!  The  last  four  or  five  are  all 
every  which  way." 

"  Do  you,  Brother  Longfellow?  " 

"  Why,  yes,  Sister  Carey,"  he  said,  after  he  had 
adjusted  his  glasses.  "  They  look  uneven  as  com 
pared  with  the  others." 

"  Well,  now,  there  it  is,"  said  the  dressmaker. 
"  That  was  the  fourth  night  I  had  set  up  late  and 
that  black  and  white  is  very  hard  on  the  eyes.  The 
last  time  I  seen  Elnora  alive  she  come  in  without 
knockin'  at  that  side  door,  and  stood  there  where 
Marilla  stood  a  while  ago.  ...  It  must  'a'  be'n  the 
door  blowed  open.  .  .  ." 

Her  voice  dwindled  into  silence,  the  others  star 
ing  as  mazed  as  she — yes,  as  dismayed  as  she  at  the 
inevitable  inference.  For  it  was  not  the  explication 
of  Elnora  Coulter's  ghost  alone  they  saw  unfolded, 
but  the  explication  of  all  questionable  shapes  that 
have  been  seen  since  time  began;  seen  with  the 
mind's  eye  from  within  outwardly,  and  not  the  other 
way  around;  when  the  soul  lies  tranced  in  the  middle 
state  between  the  sleeping  and  the  waking. 


150  FOLKS    BACK    HOME 

Manila's  disappointed  superstition  first  awoke. 
She  cried  in  pettish  anger:  "  Then  it  wasn't  a  spook, 
at  all?  O  fiddle!  "  Determined,  though,  to  have  it  so 
in  spite  of  everything,  she  argued:  "  But  it  must 
have  been!  It  just  must  have  been!  How  could  you 
been  a-dreamin'  setting  up  there  sewin'  ?  " 

The  preacher  hushed  her  with  a  gesture  of  his 
hand.  "  This  is  God's  doings,"  he  reproved  her,  "  and 
no  small  matter.  He  would  have  us  know  the  truth 
concerning  them  that  sleep.  How  any  one  particular 
ghost  came  to  be  seen  is  less  to  be  considered  than 
how  ghosts  came  to  be  believed  in;  Your  experi 
ence,  Sister  Carey,  your  most  wonderful  experience, 
shows  plainly  how  they  came  to  be  believed  in." 

'He  spoke  of  the  coincidence  of  Mrs.  Coulter's 
death,  and  how  such  instances,  rare  though  they 
might  be,  were  yet  frequent  enough  to  keep  alive 
the  ancient  heathen  doctrine  that  the  dead  are  rest 
less  and  unsettled.  Deep  within  her  heart  Almeda 
Carey  mused  on  things  the  preacher  never  dreamed 
of.  It  had  torn  her  soul  with  anguish  that,  since  it 
seemed  that,  after  all,  they  could  come  back,  the 
single  visitant  from  Behind  the  Veil  should  be  El- 
nora,  and  not  that  nearer  one  by  far  to  her  than 
ever  Elnora  was,  her  one  and  only  lover  in  the  days 
of  youth  when  it  is  always  sunny,  her  one  and  only 
lover,  whose  dear  face  through  all  these  years  still 
smiled  upon  her  from  beneath  his  jaunty  soldier  cap, 


THE   WARNING  151 

whose  curly  locks  still  glistened  in  the  light  of  that 
spring  morning  long  ago.  Even  were  the  darling 
vision  to  vanish  in  a  moment,  why  had  it  not  come? 

"  He  giveth  His  beloved  sleep,"  she  heard  the 
preacher  say,  "  not  weary  wanderings  to  and  fro." 
And  on  the  instant  disappeared  forever  all  the  haunt 
ing  discontent,  the  queryings  and  questionings,  and 
the  calm  peace  of  disillusionment  reigned  in  their 
stead. 

She  rolled  the  garment  up  whose  last  four  stitches 
held  so  much  for  her.  In  David's  certitude  she  spoke 
the  words  that  David  spoke:  "I  shall  go  to  him; 
but  he  cannot  come  to  me." 


THE    ELOPEMENT 

I   DECLARE,  if  it  wasn't  for  the  looks  of  it,  I 
wouldn't  go  one  step." 
The   man   standing  outside    the   day   coach 
of  the  north-bound  train  said  nothing.  It  did  not 
seem  necessary  to  him  to  say  anything  now.   He 
had  responded  to  that  sentiment  too  many  times 
before. 

"  But,  of  course,  now  that  I  got  my  ticket  bought 
and  everything,"  reasoned  the  woman  leaning  out 
of  the  car  window  as  if  to  convince  herself.  "  Cousin 
Jabez  invitin'  me  so  particular  and  all.  And  then  I 
hain't  be'n  back  to  York  State  for  thirty  year.  You 
was  with  me  then.  You  mind  how  I  took  you  along 
with  me?  I  woosht  you  was  goin'  along  now.  I  don't 
feel  right  about  leavin'  you  all  alone.  It  dooz  seem  so 
kind  o'  heartless." 

"Oh,  I'll  get  along  all  right,"  said  the  man 
calmly,  and  looked  to  one  side. 

"  Well,  you  must  write  and  tell  me  how  every 
thing  is.  I  know  I'll  feel  awful  worried  about  you. 
You'll  write  now,  every  week." 

"  Yes,  ma'am.  Hullo,  Johnny.  How're  you?  " 

152 


THE   ELOPEMENT  153 

"  Be  sure  and  lock  up  everything  when  you  go 
'way  from  the  house." 

"  Yes,  ma'am.  That's  Johnny  Mara." 

"  Is  it?  And  do  up  your  dirty  clothes  every  week 
in  a  bundle  and  take  'em  over  to  Longbrake's  so's 
Miss  Bennett  kin  git  'em  when  she  comes  for  their 
wash.  Laws!  I  feel  awful  worried  about  your  socks; 
you  jist  go  right  through  'em  and  nobody  to  darn 
'em  for  you.  Well,  you'll  jist  have  to  git  new  ones.  I 
got  the  biggest  notion  not  to  go  at  all.  If  it  wasn't 
for  the  looks  of  the  thing,  I'd  back  out  right  now. 
Don't  forget  to  change  the  under  sheet  once  a  week. 
You  know  where  the  clean  ones  is,  in  the  lower  bu 
reau  drawer.  And  put  the  top  sheet  in  under  you  and 
the  clean  one  on  top.  Tchk!  I'll  bet  the  bed  won't 
be  made  once  the  whole  time  I'm  gone.  I  got  a 
good  notion  not  to —  And  mind,  you  water  them 
plants.  If  it  should  turn  real  cold,  you  better  come 
home  once  in  a  while  and  look  after  the  fire  and 
see  how  things  is  gittin'  along.  I  wouldn't  have 
them  plants  git  froze,  especially  that  pineapple  gera 
nium » 

"All  aboard!"  called  out  the  conductor. 

The  man  outside  the  car  brightened  up  and  cried, 
"Well,  good-by,  ma!" 

"  Good-by,  Augustus,"  she  answered,  gripping  the 
hand  he  gave  her.  "Write  reg'ler.  Put  the  milk 
bucket  out  every  night  on  the  back  porch.  The 


i54  FOLKS    BACK    HOME 

tickets  is  in  the  blue  cup  on  the  second  shelf  of  the 
pantry  cupboard,  and  when  they  give  out  you  must 
remember  and  git  more —  Mercy!  "  The  train  gave 
a  jerk  as  it  started.  She  held  on  to  her  son's  hand. 
"  Well,  good-by,  Augustus.  Don't  track  in  any  more 
mud'n  you  can  help  when  it  rains.  I  expect  the 
place'll  look  like  distraction.  Pity  sakes!  I  woosht 
I  hadn't  V  come.  Well,  good-by,  Augustus." 

The  train  was  going  so  fast  that  Augustus  was 
forced  to  let  go.  His  mother  shouted,  "  Oh,  say! 
Wind  the  clock  Saturdays — "  But  the  car  swept 
past  the  linseed-oil  mill  and  she  sank  back  in  her 
seat,  saddened  by  the  consciousness  that  he  had  not 
heard  her  and  now  it  was  too  late  to  tell  him.  She 
just  knew  there  would  be  something  she  would  for 
get  at  the  very  last  minute.  For  half  a  cent  she 
would  get  out  at  Mt.  Victory  and  take  the  next  train 
back.  But  when  the  brakeman  opened  the  car  door 
and  first  inquired  and  then  answered  his  own  ques 
tion,  "  Ma-oun  Vict'ry?  Ma-oun  Vict'ry,"  she  sat 
still.  She  might  as  well  go  on  now  that  her  ticket  was 
punched.  It  would  look  kind  of  green  for  her  to  get 
off  after  having  gone  so  far,  but  still 

Augustus  went  back  to  the  coal  office  at  once  de 
pressed  and  elated,  but  a  little  more  elated  than 
depressed.  He  was  lonesome,  but  he  was  also  free. 
It  was  a  new  thing  for  him  to  do  as  he  pleased, 
though  he  would  be  forty  on  his  next  birthday.  All 


THE   ELOPEMENT  155 

of  us  have  had  mothers;  few  of  us  had  so  much  of 
a  one  as  Augustus  Biddle  had.  She  took  entire 
charge  of  him,  his  goings  out  and  his  comings  in,  his 
downsittings  and  his  uprisings.  All  that  the  proverb 
about  the  hen  with  one  chick  hints  at  was  exem 
plified  in  her  treatment  of  the  only  surviving  mem 
ber  of  her  family.  She  was  too  strong-minded  to  be 
his  slave,  but  all  that  she  did  was  for  his  temporal 
and  eternal  welfare.  Realizing  that  letting  him 
"  piece "  between  meals,  sit  up  till  all  hours,  eat 
candy  and  cake  and  such  trash  were  but  species  of 
the  Higher  Cruelty,  she  was  yet  among  the  first  to 
revolt  against  the  doctrine  that  sparing  the  rod 
meant  spoiling  the  child.  Nevertheless,  she  held  that 
when  a  child  was  naughty  it  ought  to  be  punished, 
and  the  way  she  did  it  was  now  part  of  the  history 
of  Logan  County.  It  was  a  byword  in  Minuca  Cen 
ter,  "  Augustus!  if  you  do  that  again,  I'll  stick  you 
with  a  pin!"  Yet  it  must  have  been  that  the  pin 
was  mightier  than  the  rod,  for  the  young  ones  that 
used  to  take  doses  of  "  peach-tree  oil "  and  were 
slapped  halfway  across  the  kitchen  when  they  were 
naughty,  were  always  whining,  "  Aw,  I  don't  want 
to,"  and,  "  Cain't  I  stay  out  a  little  longer?  "  while 
Mrs.  Biddle  had  only  to  come  out  on  the  back  porch 
and  chant: 


156  FOLKS    BACK    HOME 

And  Augustus  promptly  answered,  "Hoo!" 

"Come!" 

"  Yes,  ma'am,"  and  dropping  everything,  the  boy 
ran  to  see  what  his  ma  wanted. 

It  is  always  a  surprise  to  parents  to  find  that  their 
children  are  growing  big.  They  see  them  by  interior 
vision  as  perpetually  only  about  four  years  old.  So 
when  the  perilous  season  of  life  comes,  father  and 
mother  are  taken  unawares.  But  they  think,  anyhow, 
it  is  only  the  girls  that  need  watching.  Not  so  with 
Mrs.  Biddle.  She  knew  that  it  is  a  time  when  all  the 
ordered  universe  of  a  boy's  life  melts  and  dissolves 
away  and  that  in  its  fumes  are  pictured  iridescent 
phantasmagoria  of  the  strenuous  life,  battle  and  hero 
ism  and  deeds  of  high  emprise.  Vague  ambitions  stir 
the  heart.  One  does  not  know  for  certain  whether 
he  will  dip  his  hands  in  Indian  blood  or  be  a  detec 
tive,  whether  he  will  find  a  gold  mine  or  brake  on 
the  railroad,  but  he  will  go  far  away,  maybe  clear  to 
Galion,  and  be  rich,  and  when  he  comes  back  people 
will  say,  "That's  him!"  It  seems  as  if  his  beard 
would  never  come,  and  he  gets  red  in  the  face  when 
his  father  asks,  "  How  did  you  cut  your  lip  so, 
Eddie?  "  It  still  mortifies  him  almost  to  death  to  be 
made  to  sit  with  the  girls  in  school,  but,  somehow, 
he  begins  to  look  at  them  with  more  interest,  and 
if  he  is  very  bold,  he  may  slip  the  fairest  of  them  a 
note  that  reads:  "  Dear  Gracie  I  thought  I  would 


THE    ELOPEMENT  157 

write  you  a  letter  I  love  you  so  good-by  from  Eddie 
Johnson." 

We  think  this  is  most  amusing,  but  in  our  hearts 
we  know  that  we  are  only  trying  to  carry  it  off  with 
a  laugh,  while  inwardly  we  tremble  for  the  children. 
We  remember  our  own  lives,  and  we  fetch  a  sigh 
and  say,  "  Ah,  Lord !  What  they've  got  to  go 
through  with!"  And  yet  what  can  we  do?  It  is  as 
if  they  were  at  the  crisis  of  a  deadly  fever.  It  seems 
as  if  we  can't  sit  still  and  wait;  we  must  be  doing 
for  them.  And  yet  what  we  do,  though  with  the  best 
intent,  may  be  only  murder  of  body  and  souf.  The 
time  is  come  when  they  are  no  longer  ours;  they 
are  partly  their  own.  With  a  girl,  the  problem  is 
simpler,  but  the  boy  is  like  the  fisherman  in  the 
Arabian  tale  that  finds  the  leaden  bottle  in  which 
is  sealed  up  an  Afreet.  Very  potent  is  the  Afreet, 
very  potent  for  good — let  us  hope,  for  good — but 
also  very  potent  for  evil,  as  we  cannot  forget.  We 
would  not  have  our  sons  miss  finding  the  bottle,  and 
yet  who  of  us  but  has  seen  the  day  when  the  Afreet's 
cruel  shape  darkened  the  heaven  over  our  heads 
and  menaced  our  lives,  when  we  wished  we  knew 
the  magic  word  that  could  conjure  the  evil  Djinn 
into  the  vase  again,  that  we  might  hurl  it  far,  far 
out  to  sea?  And  no  such  word  exists. 

The  widow  Biddle  was  not  taken  by  surprise  when 
her  son's  time  of  peril  came.  The  leaden  bottle  was 


158  FOLKS    BACK    HOME 

found,  but  never  was  unsealed.  She  knew  that  what 
Augustus  needed  was  a  mother's  tender  watch  care. 
That  watch  care  was  not  relaxed  one  moment  in 
thirty  years.  She  meant  him  to  marry  some  day,  but 
that  day  was  like  the  moon  that  the  little  child  won 
ders  to  see  go  about  as  it  does.  It  was  always  off 
yonder.  She  looked  about  her  and  saw  the  foolish 
matches  and  the  wrangling  homes,  and  resolved  that 
her  boy  should  not  throw  himself  away  if  she  could 
help  it.  There  was  no  need  for  hurry,  because  a  man 
can  always  get  married,  no  matter  how  old  he  is.  She 
knew  that  while  in  theory  it  is  the  man  that  asks, 
in  practice  it  is  the  woman  that  arranges  conversa 
tion  so  that  the  man  must  say,  "  Will  you  marry 
me?"  or  else  feel  like  a  natural-born  slink.  She  did 
not  propose  to  have  her  Augustus  crowded  up  in  a 
corner  that  way.  When  she  found  the  right  kind  of 
a  girl  she  would  do  the  arranging  of  the  conversa 
tion;  she  would  secure  the  propinquity  that  provokes 
love.  She  had  not  yet  found  the  right  girl;  of  late 
years  she  had  not  prosecuted  the  search  with  much 
diligence.  It  seemed  to  her  that  Augustus  was  just 
about  as  well  off  as  he  was.  He  had  a  comfortable 
home.  She  looked  after  him  and  took  care  of  him, 
laid  out  his  clean  linen,  and  told  him  when  to  go 
and  get  his  hair  cut.  There  were  no  children  whoop 
ing  and  howling  around  and  tracking  up  the  house. 
Augustus  appeared  to  be  satisfied.  Probably  a  tiger 


THE    ELOPEMENT  159 

brought  up  on  the  bottle,  kept  in  a  cage  and  fed 
on  mush  and  milk,  would  never  regret  the  absence 
of  butcher's  meat.  But  leave  the  door  open 

Worried  for  fear  he  would  not  wind  the  clock,  but 
otherwise  calm  in  her  mind,  Mrs.  Biddle  went  on  a 
visit  to  her  folks  back  in  York  State.  If  a  man  is 
not  steady  and  settled  down  when  he  is  going  on 
forty  years  old,  when  will  he  be,  I  should  like  to 
know?  So  the  tiger's  cage  door  was  left  on  the 
jar. 

Alas  for  men!  They  need  watching  all  the  time, 
even  when  they  are  past  forty.  In  a  town  like  Minu- 
ca  Center  they  generally  get  it,  too.  There  is  no 
lack  of  interest  in  other  people  in  such  a  place.  The 
Center  hummed  like  a  beehive  when  it  saw  Augustus 
Biddle  taking  the  girls  out  buggy  riding,  some  of 
the  old  maids,  too,  who  the  men  folks  were  sure 
were  fairly  eating  their  hearts  because  they  were  not 
married  and  working  hard  every  day  and  Sunday, 
too,  for  board  and  clothes.  Along  in  the  latter  part 
of  January,  when  Mrs.  Biddle  had  been  gone  a 
month  or  so,  it  was  generally  agreed  that  the  situ 
ation  was  critical  and  that  something  ought  to  be 
done  about  it. 

"  W'y,  if  his  ma  knowed  the  way  he  was  a-actin'," 
vowed  Sarepta  Downey  to  Mrs.  Lester  Pettitt, 
"  she'd  jist  about  go  up." 

"Well,  I  don'  know's  I  blame  him  much,"  de- 


160  FOLKS    BACK   HOME 

clared  Mrs.  Pettitt.  "  Anybody  that's  be'n  kep'  un 
der  the  way  he  has  all  his  life.  If  I  was  a  man,  I'd  fly 
'round  amongs'  'em,  too,  come  a  good  chance." 

"  Oh,  he  ain't  a-flyin'  'round  amongs'  'em  now 
no  more,"  corrected  Sarepta.  "  Huh-uh.  Not  now. 
He's  got  all  through  with  that.  I  don't  know  where 
your  eyes  are  at  that  you  hadn't  seen  that.  He's  got 
her  all  picked  out,  bless  your  soul." 

"Who?" 

"W'y,  Carrie  Pollock!" 

"  Carrie  Pollock?  W'y,  I  thought  Frank  Wood- 
mansee  was  goin'  with  her." 

"  Well,  so  he  is  and  so's  Augustus." 

"  If  he  gets  her  away  from  Frank  Woodmansee 
he's  a  dandy,"  put  in  Mr.  Pettitt,  who  laid  down  his 
paper  to  listen  to  the  gossips.  "  Why,  Frank  Wood- 
mansee'd  tole  a  bird  down  out  of  a  tree  with  his 
talk.  Best  man  ever  Blackwell  had  on  a  tin  wagon. 
He  could  get  more  eggs  and  butter  from  the  farm 
ers'  wives  for  less  tinware  than  any  man  goin'. 
Blackwell  kicked  like  a  steer  when  Frank  got  too 
big  feelin'  to  drive  a  wagon  and  wanted  to  come 
in  and  be  in  the  store,  but  he  just  had  to  give  in  to 
him.  Terrible  ambitious,  Frank  is.  And  now  Black- 
well  don't  do  nothin'  but  brag  how  smart  Frank  is. 
He  jist  about  runs  the  whole  concern.  He's  a  little 
too  daggon  smart,  I  think.  You  mark  now  if  he 
don't  eucher  Blackwell  out  o'  everything  and  have 


THE  ELOPEMENT  161 

it  all  to  himself  in  about  two  years.  Oh,  he's  bound 
to  rise." 

"  Carrie'll  do  well  to  get  him  then,"  said  his  wife. 

"Well,  I  don*  know  about  that.  Frank's  terrible 
selfish,  and  outside  o'  business  they  ain't  a  great 
deal  to  Frank.  He's  the  best  one  of  the  whole  tribe. 
The  rest  is  jest  common  on'ry." 

"  Carrie  thinks  a  lot  of  Augustus,"  said  Miss 
Downey.  "  He's  real  well  educated,  Augustus  is,  and 
knows  a  lot  o'  poetry.  He's  good  to  his  ma  and 
handy  around  the  house,  always  doin'  something  to 
help  the  women  folks.  Oh,  Frank'll  have  to  git  his 
feet  in  under  him  if  he's  goin'  to  keep  her.  Augus 
tus  is  rushin'  her  for  all  he's  worth.  Hadn't  'a'  be'n 
for  him,  Carrie  and  her  ma  wouldn't  ever  'a'  went 
no  place.  Frank  wouldn't  never  think  of  it,  but  now 
since  Augustus  got  to  comin"  around  w'y  Carrie 
and  her  ma  has  be'n  to  more  places  than  they  ever 
was  in  their  born  days  before.  Reg'lar  foot  race  it 
is;  whichever  one  o'  them  gits  there  first  the  other 
one  takes  her  ma  some  place." 

"  So's  to  keep  in  with  Carrie,"  suggested  Mrs. 
Pettitt. 

"  Well,  I  don*  know,"  answered  Sarepta.  "  Look 
like  to  me,  Frank,  he'd  like  to  git  Carrie,  she's  so 
pretty,  and  he'd  like  to  git  her  ma,  she  got  such  a 
good  head  for  business.  Why,  law  me!  if  it  hadn't 
'a*  be'n  for  her,  Jim  Pollock  wouldn't  amounted  to 


162  FOLKS    BACK   HOME 

anything,  and  after  he  died  she  got  more  out  o'  the 
farm  on  sheers'n  he  ever  did  workin'  it  himself,  and 
here  they're  livin'  in  town  and  havjn'  everything 
nice.  Yes,  sir,  Frank  wants  her,  too,  and  " — Sarepta 
leaned  over  and  laughed  against  the  back  of  her 
hand — "  look  like  to  me  that  since  Augustus  started 
in  to  cut  out  Frank  with  Carrie,  he  thought  he 
might  as  well  make  a  good  job  of  it  and  cut  him  out 
with  her  ma,  too." 

"Tchk!  The  land!"  ejaculated  Mrs.  Pettitt. 

"  Carrie's  a  right  pretty  girl,"  mused  Mr.  Pettitt. 
"  I  be'n  havin'  my  eye  on  Carrie  this  good  while 
now."  He  looked  at  his  wife  out  of  the  corner  of 
his  eye.  She  was  very  busy  with  an  apron  of  Janey's 
she  was  hemming.  She  was  painfully  jealous-hearted, 
and  Lester  Pettitt  loved  to  tease.  "  But  if  I  was  to 
be  left  a  widower  right  sudden,  I  don't  know  but 
I'd  kind  o'  shine  up  to  Ma  Pollock." 

"O  you!"  burst  out  Mrs.  Pettitt,  unable  to  re 
strain  herself. 

"  Yes,"  pursued  Mr.  Pettitt,  "  she'd  suit  me  'bout 
as  well  as  any  of  'em.  Good  lookin',  too,  she  is. 
Women  like  Caroline  Boyce  don't  no  more'n  git 
good  and  ripe  till  they're  along  about  forty.  Now, 
ma,  here,  when  she's  forty,  you  know  what  she'll 
look  like?  Why,  a  two  weeks'  washin'  done  up  in 
a  bedspread."  He  winked  at  Sarepta,  who  knew  that 
if  there  was  one  thing  that  Mrs.  Pettitt  dreaded 


THE    ELOPEMENT  163 

worse  than  death  itself  it  was  fat.  She  was  just  a 
plump  little  body  now,  but  her  sister  Polly  Ann  was 
considered  "a  sight!"  She  weighed  three  hundred 
pounds,  and  always  used  to  hop  over  the  hot-air 
registers  in  the  aisle  of  Center  Street  church.  She 
was  afraid  to  step  on  them  lest  she  break  through. 

"  Caroline  Pollock's  more'n  forty,"  said  Mrs.  Pet- 
titt,  with  much  asperity.  "  Look  at  that  big,  grown 
up  daughter." 

"  Oh,  no,  she  ain't,"  corrected  Sarepta.  "  She  mar 
ried  Jim  Pollock  when  she  wasn't  but  eighteen,  and 
Carrie's  only  nineteen  now.  She  ain't  a  day  over 
thirty-nine.  She's  jist  about  Augustus  Biddle's  age." 

"  Gus  ort  to  let  Frank  have  the  girl  and  him  go 
for  her  ma,"  said  Mr.  Pettitt.  "  Man  like  him,  raised 
by  hand,  as  you  might  say,  ud  never  git  along  with 
a  young  girl.  You  know  what  Caroline  Pollock  is, 
but  Carrie,  law!  she  don'  know  what  she  is  herself. 
Man  marry  her,  he's  got  to  take  her  sight  unseen 
and  trust  to  luck.  My!  my!  How  many  of  'em  gits 
fooled.  Now,  me,  f'r  instance —  But  what's  the  use?  " 
Mr.  Pettitt  sighed  and  sadly  shook  his  head. 

Mrs.  Pettitt  speared  him  with  a  look,  but  he  pre 
tended  not  to  notice.  Sarepta  saw  that  it  was  time 
to  make  a  diversion. 

"  My  land!  "  said  she,  "  if  Augustus  Biddle  should 
marry  Caroline  Pollock,  his  ma  would  just  naturally 
paw  up  the  ground!  W'y,  them  two  ud  no  more  git 


164  FOLKS    BACK    HOME 

along  together  than  I  don*  know  what.  Mercy! 
What  a  time  they'd  have.  I  sh'd  think  somebuddy'd 
up  and  let  that  pore  woman  away  off  yan  in  York 
State  know  what  kind  o'  doin's  they  was  goin'  on 
around  here.  Wouldn't  she  come  home  jist  a-flukin'? 
My!  Well,  I  must  be  gittin'  along.  Here  'tis  'most 
bedtime  and  me  settin'  here  runnin'  on  about  my 
neighbors  as  if  I  didn't  have  anything  better  to  do. 
Well,  good  night,  all.  When  you  comin'  over,  Mis' 
Pettitt?  You  hain't  come  to  see  me  in  a  long  time. 
You,  too,  Mr.  Pettitt.  Oh,  I  can  see;  you  needn't 
bring  the  light.  Snow's  goin'  awful  fast,  ain't  it? 
Well,  good  night." 

The  door  had  no  more  than  shut  on  her  when  Mrs. 
Pettitt  exploded  with  pent-up  fury.  "WHAT  did 
you  go  and  talk  like  that  for  before  that  woman 
when  you  know — when  you  kno-o-o-ow  that  she 
runs  and  tells  everything  that  she  hears?  " 

Mr.  Pettitt  threw  up  one  arm  as  if  to  shield  his 
head  and  cried  in  mock  terror,  "  Help!  help!  help!  " 

She  was  determined  not  to  let  him  see  her  smile. 
"  Oh,  it's  nothing  to  laugh  at.  I  declare!  you're  more 
of  a  child  than  Janey  is  right  now.  I  don't  know 
what  possessed  you  to  say  such  a  thing  before 
her." 

"  Say  what?  "  inquired  the  innocent  Mr.  Pettitt. 

"  Oh,  you  know  very  well.  That  about  you  gittin' 
fooled  in  me,  for  one  thing." 


THE    ELOPEMENT  165 

"Well,  didn't  I?  Didn't  you  promise  the  preacher 
you'd  obey  me?  Well,  do  you?  No,  you  don't.  Didn't 
I  command  you  last  night  to  sew  that  button  on 
my  vest?  Yes,  I  did.  Is  it  sewed  on?  No,  it  hain't. 
You  don't  care  if  I  go  round  town  lookin'  like  a 
scarecrow  and  people  pointin'  the  ringer  o'  scorn 
at  me.  I'll  bet  my  second  wife  won't " 

"  Oh,  hush  up  and  gimme  that  vest.  I  forgot  all 
about  it  as  slick  as  a  whistle.  I'll  sew  it  on  now  while 
I  think  of  it.  Well,  land  of  love!  Did  you  ever  hear 
the  beat  o'  them  two  fellows  tryin'  to  cut  each  other 
out  with  two  women  at  once?  The  idy! " 

"  What  I  want  to  know  is  what  Ma  Biddle'll  do 
with  Augustus.  He's  gittin'  'most  too  big  now  to 
be  stuck  with  a  pin." 

"  I  hope  she  won't  come  home  till  he  gets  mar 
ried." 

"  Oh,  somebody '11  write  to  her  before." 

"Who?" 

"  Who?  W'y,  anybody.  I  know  fifty  that  ud  ask 
for  nothin'  better.  I  wouldn't  put  it  past  you,  for 
one." 

"  ME?  Me  tell  her?  W'y,  Lester  Pettitt,  you're 
the  meanest  white  man  that  ever  lived!  W'y,  I'd  no 
more  think  o'  doin'  such  a  thing —  Go  on  away  from 
me.  Go  on,  I  tell  you.  I'm  mad  now.  The  idy  of 
sayin' —  Go  way,  now-ah.  Come  a  huggin'  and  kiss- 
in'  around  me  after  sayin' — Lester-rah!  If  you  do 


166  FOLKS    BACK    HOME 

that  again,  now — I'll — I'll  stick  you  with  a  pin.  Sh! 
You'll  wake  up  Janey." 

Somebody  did  write  and  tell  Mrs.  Biddle,  and  it 
wasn't  Augustus,  either.  It  just  goes  to  show  how 
if  you  escape  Scylla  you  fall  into  Charybdis.  Be  too 
lax  with  children,  and  they  run  wild  and  terrify  the 
neighborhood;  be  too  strict  with  them  and  they  be 
come  expert  dissimulators,  preserving  the  form  of 
truth,  but  denying  the  power  thereof.  So  it  was  that 
Augustus's  letters,  while  professing  to  give  all  the 
news  of  the  Center,  omitted  that  which  would  have 
been  even  more  interesting  to  her  than  it  was  to 
her  neighbors.  Who  it  was  that  sent  the  postal  card 
on  which  was  written:  "  When  the  cat's  away,  the 
mice  will  play,"  is  not  certainly  known,  for  it  was 
not  signed.  When  it  got  to  Mrs.  Biddle  it  had  much 
the  same  effect  upon  her  as  the  appearance  of  the 
fingers  of  a  man's  hand  that  came  out  of  the  wall 
and  wrote  upon  the  plaster  had  upon  the  revelers  at 
Belshazzar's  feast.  It  put  a  stop  to  all  her  enjoy 
ment.  She  worried  and  worried  about  what  it  could 
mean.  Then  came  a  letter  signed  which  gave  her 
the  interpretation.  Her  kingdom  was  about  to  be 
divided  and  given  to  another.  She  packed  her  trunk 
after  she  answered  the  letter. 

It  may  be  regarded  as  significant  that  Frank 
Woodmansee  should  have  met  her  at  the  train.  They 
had  a  long  conference  together.  "  Wootsy  "  Morton, 


THE  ELOPEMENT  167 

the  depot  operator,  saw  them  talking  and  called  up 
Augustus  on  the  telephone. 

"  Say,  Biddle!  "  he  said,  his  hand  making  a  tube 
over  the  transmitter,  "  is  that  you,  Biddle?  This  is 
Morton  at  the  depot.  Say,  your  ma  came  in  on  No. 
4.  Why  didn't  you —  Yes,  on  No.  4.  Why,  Frank 
Woodmansee  met  her.  Him  and  her  is  holdin'  a 
confab  on  the  platform  now.  Didn't  you  know  she 
was  comin'  ho —  Hello!  Are  you  there  yet?  Hello, 
Central!  What  did  you  cut  us  off  for?  You  did,  too. 
Huh?  Well,  he  don't  answer.  Say;  ring  'em  up 
again." 

Bzzzzzinngt! 

"Hello,  Biddle!" 

"  Don't  answer,"  said  Central  in  her  prim,  flat, 
far-away  voice. 

The  hand  'phone  in  Augustus's  office  swung  vio 
lently  on  its  double  cord  as  Augustus  slammed  the 
door  shut  and  locked  it,  after  taking  a  paper  from 
a  desk  drawer  and  thrusting  it  into  his  pocket.  His 
horse  and  buggy  were  in  the  shed,  and  he  drove  up 
Columbus  Street,  looking  behind  him  fearfully. 

"  She'll  most  likely  walk  over,"  he  said  to  himself, 
"  specially  if  she's  got  somebody  to  carry  her  grip 
sack.  She'll  go  to  the  office  first  and  then  she'll  go 
to  the  house,  and  if  I  ain't  there,  w'y,  then  her  and 
Woodmansee'll  go  on  up  to —  'Tain't  quite  as  much 
time  as  I'd  like  to  have,  but  still —  I  laid  out  to 


i68  FOLKS    BACK   HOME 

go  easy  about  it  and  not  plunge  in  headlong  this 
way." 

He  jumped  out  at  the  Pollocks'  house,  hurriedly 
tied  his  horse,  and  went  around  by  the  side  door,  at 
which  he  knocked.  Mrs.  Pollock  answered  the  sum 
mons. 

"Where's  Carrie?"  he  gasped  and  pushed  his 
way  in.  He  felt  a  kind  of  goneness  in  his  insides. 

"  W'y,  she's —  I  don't  know  where  she  is,  Mr. 
Biddle.  Some  girl  come  along  a  while  ago  and  pirted 
for  her  and  she  put  on  her  things  and  went  out.  I 
guess  she  won't  be  gone  long." 

"  How  long?  " 

"W'y,  I  don't  really  know;  half  an  hour,  mebby, 
or  mebby  an  hour." 

Augustus  sank  down  into  a  chair  apathetically, 
his  hands  drooping  between  his  knees,  and  his  head 
bent  forward.  He  had  not  counted  on  her  being  from 
home. 

"  Don't  you  think  you  could  find  her?  "  he  asked, 
after  a  while. 

"W'y,  I  don't  know  as  I  could."  Then  as  she 
noted  the  expression  in  his  face,  Mrs.  Pollock  cried 
out,  "Augustus  Biddle!  What  is  the  matter?  You 
look  like  you'd  lost  every  friend  on  earth." 

"  Ma's  come  home,"  he  said,  and  licked  his  lips. 
"  She  didn't  send  me  no  word  she  was  comin'. 
*  Wootsy '  Morton  telephoned  me  he  seen  her  and 


THE    ELOPEMENT  169 

Frank  Woodmansee  holdin'  a  confab  on  the  depot 
platform.  I'll  jist  bet  you  anything — "  He  got  up 
and  walked  the  floor.  "  If  he  has  now — if  he  has,  I'll 
break  his  neck,  I  will,  by  Godfrey!" 

"W'y,  Mr.  Biddle!" 

"  I  don't  care.  Tattlin'  on  me.  Consarn  his  pic 
ture!" 

"  You  ain't  saw  your  ma  yet?  " 

"  No,  I  hain't."  He  paused.  "  I  don't  know  as  I 
jist  exactly  wanted  to  see  her  till — till  afterwards. 
You  don't  know  where  Carrie  is?  " 

"W'y,  no,  I  don't.  She  started  out—  What  did 
you  want  to  see  her  about?  " 

"  Why-ah,"  said  Augustus,  turning  his  hat  in  his 
hands,  "  I  kind  o'  thought  mebby  she'd  like  to  take 
a  ride  over  to  Sunbury  with  me." 

"  To  Sunbury?  And  your  mother  jist  come  back 
home?" 

Augustus  nodded  as  he  looked  into  her  face  with 
a  sort  of  pitiful  smile  and  a  doglike  wistfulness.  It 
was  as  much  as  to  say,  "  Don't  you  understand 
why?  "  Mrs.  Pollock  stooped  to  pick  a  raveling  off 
the  floor  and  rose  up  red  in  the  face.  "  I  was  over 
to  Sunbury  Friday  and  stepped  into  the  county 
clerk's  office — "  He  broke  off  suddenly  and  his 
mouth  hung  open  as  if  he  had  just  thought  of  some 
thing.  "  Would  you  be  willin' " — he  said,  gulped, 
flushed,  and  went  on — "  would  you  be  willin'  to  go 


1 70  FOLKS    BACK    HOME 

for  a  little  ride  with  me  summers  out  of  the  way 
till  I  got  kind  o'  cammed  down?  Ma  comin'  home 
this  away  kind  o'  upset  me.  I  woosht  you  would 


now." 


"  W'y— ah— "  The  widow  hesitated. 

"  I  woosht  you  would  now,"  he  persisted.  "  I'd — 
ah — 'I'd  like  to  talk  to  you  about  somepin." 

"Wy — ah,  I  expect  mebby  I  could,"  said  the 
widow  slowly.  "  If  you  didn't  go  too  far." 

To  Augustus,  who  looked  every  minute  to  see 
Vengeance  coming  around  the  corner  of  the  house, 
it  seemed  an  age  before  Mrs.  Pollock  got  herself 
ready  for  the  drive,  but,  terrified  as  he  was,  he  could 
not  help  but  recognize  the  fact  that  she  had  put  in 
the  time  well.  She  was  a  fine-looking  woman  and 
no  mistake,  but  Augustus  could  not  tarry  to  ad 
mire,  so  anxious  was  he  to  flee  from  the  wrath  to 
come.  The  neighbors  noticed  when  he  drove  away 
that  he  kept  looking  around  all  the  time.  Minnie 
De  Wees  said  to  her  mother,  "  I  jist  bet  you  they's 
somepin  up.  Now,  you  mark;  they's  a  hen  on,  sure 
as  shootin'."  Afterwards  she  bragged  no  little  of  her 
gift  of  prophecy. 

Mrs.  Biddle  and  Frank  Woodmansee  stopped  at 
the  coal  office.  It  was  locked  up.  They  knocked  on 
the  door.  There  was  no  answer.  Mrs.  Biddle  went 
to  the  window  and  shaded  it  with  her  hand  so  as 
to  see  in.  The  objects  within  looked  familiar  to  her, 


THE   ELOPEMENT  171 

even  the  paperweight  carved  out  of  a  piece  of 
cannel  coal.  They  made  her  homesick  for  the  sight 
of  her  son.  But  the  hand  'phone  dangling  on  its  cord 
and  the  books  left  lying  open,  fretted  her;  it  looked 
so  slack  and  careless.  She  wanted  to  get  in  and 
straighten  things  up.  He  used  to  be  so  particular, 
but  now,  since  that  woman  had  got  after  him,  he 
was  letting  everything  go. 

"  Well,  he  ain't  h-yur,"  said  Frank  Woodmansee. 
He  noticed  people  stopping  to  look  at  him  carry 
ing  Mrs.  Biddle's  gripsack  and  smiling  so  knowing. 
He  told  himself  again  that  everything  was  fair  in 
love  and  war,  but  he  wasn't  so  sure  of  it  as  he  had 
been. 

"  No,  he  ain't  h-yur,"  assented  Mrs.  Biddle,  with 
a  sigh.  "  I  reckon  we'd  better  go  on  around  to  the 
house,  and  if  he  ain't  there  I  can  leave  the  gripsack 
with  Mis'  Longbrake — I  expect  you're  kind  o'  tired 
luggin'  it  around — and  then  we'll  go  up  and  see — 
that  woman."  There  was  a  cluck  in  her  voice  as  she 
spoke  the  last  words. 

But  the  Biddle  house  was  as  deserted  as  the  Bid- 
die  coal  office.  When  the  widow  realized  with  a  cold 
sickness  at  her  heart  that  she  was  locked  out  of  her 
own  house,  she  sighed  and  went  next  door.  Mrs. 
Longbrake  had  been  watching  her  and  came  to  meet 
her  with,  "  W'y,  I  declare  if  it  ain't  Mis'  Biddle!  My! 
how  well  you're  lookin'!  It  done  you  lots  o'  good  to 


172  FOLKS    BACK   HOME 

go  away  fer  a  spell.  Come  in,  won't  you,  and  set  a 
while." 

"  No,  thank  you.  I  got  to  go  right  on.  I'd  like 
to  leave  my  gripsack  here,  if  you  don't  mind." 

"W'y,  certainly.  Clarence,  take  Mis'  Biddle's 
gripsack  and  set  it  over  there  by  the  bureau.  Take 
your  han'kerchief,  Clarence.  How  many  times  have 
I  got  to  speak  to  you  about  snufflin'  that  way?  I 
s'pose  you  come  fer  the  weddin',  Mis'  Biddle." 

"What  weddin'?"  snapped  Mrs.  Biddle. 

"  W'y,  Augustus  and  Carrie  Pollock.  I  says  to 
Mr.  Longbrake  when  he  come  home  and  told  me 
about  it,  '  It's  funny,'  I  says,  '  that ' " 

"  Is  he  married?  "  demanded  Mrs.  Biddle  of  Mrs. 
Longbrake  and  of  Frank  Woodmansee,  turning  first 
to  one  and  then  the  other. 

"  I  says  to  Mr.  Longbrake,  '  W'y,  what  does  he 
want  to  git  married  over  to  Sunbury  fer? '  I  says. 
'  Well,'  he  says,  '  that's  whur  he  got  the  license  out,' 
he  says." 

"It  ain't  so!"  cried  Frank  Woodmansee.  "It 
ain't  so!  Carrie  Pollock?" 

"  Carrie  Pollock,"  asserted  Mrs.  Longbrake,  bow 
ing  her  head,  closing  her  eyes,  and  primming  her 
lips.  "  Nineteen  years  old.  That's  what  the  license 
said.  Mr.  Longbrake  seen  it  when  he  was  over  to 
Sunbury,  and  Mr.  Curl,  the  county  clerk  of  Union 
County,  he  ast  him  if  he  knowed  them  parties,  and 


THE  ELOPEMENT  173 

Mr.  Longbrake  he  said  he  did,  and — "  The  sentence 
dwindled  into  nothing,  for,  with  one  look  of  mutual 
rage,  Mrs.  Biddle  and  Frank  Woodmansee  turned 
and  hurried  down  the  front  walk.  They  would  go 
up  to  Carrie  Pollock's  and  have  this  thing  straight 
ened  out. 

"  I  reckon  he  feels  right  bad  to  git  the  mitten  that 
way,"  said  Mrs.  Longbrake,  as  she  watched  them 
go  up  the  street.  "  It  kind  o'  s'prised  him,  'pears 
like.  I  don't  reckon  Mis'  Biddle  likes  it  any  too  well, 
either,  looks  o'  things.  Clarence,  I  declare  I  don' 
know  what  I'll  do  to  you  if  you  behave  that  way 
before  people  again.  I  was  mortified  to  death  at 
you." 

Frank  Woodmansee  rang  the  Pollock  doorbell 
and  rang  and  rang.  They  seemed  fated  to  be 
shut  out  on  all  sides.  All  the  neighboring  windows 
that  gave  on  the  Pollock  house  concealed  each  an 
anxious  watcher.  Minnie  De  Wees,  who  lived  in  the 
third  house,  and  could  not  see  very  well  from  there, 
actually  went  out  on  the  front  porch  to  look,  but 
her  boldness  was  condemned  by  all.  They  said  that 
was  a  little  too  much.  Mrs.  Biddle  and  Frank  Wood 
mansee  talked  very  earnestly  together  in  low  tones, 
and  Minnie  De  Wees  nearly  went  out  of  her  mind 
because  she  could  not  hear  them.  They  gave  one 
more  ring  and  stood  waiting.  Then  they  heard  the 
gate  latch  click;  turning  around,  they  beheld  Carrie 


174  FOLKS    BACK    HOME 

Pollock  entering  the  yard.  Woodmansee  gave  her  a 

searching  look. 

"Why,  how  do  you  do,  Mrs.  Biddle?  "  said  the 
girl,  and  then  turned  demurely  to  greet  the  man. 
"  How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Woodmansee?  I  thought  you 
were  in  New  York  State,  Mrs.  Biddle.  Aren't  you 
home  rather  unexpected?  " 

Mrs.  Biddle  glared  at  the  girl.  "What  have  you 
done  with  my  son?"  she  demanded.  "Ain't  you 
asha-a-med  of  yourself  to  stand  there  talkin'  to  me 
in  that  way  after  the  way  you've  be'n  a-actin'?  And 
you  dare  " — she  gulped — "  you  dare  to  look  me  in 
the  face,  you — you —  Oh,  for  half  a  cent,  I'd — 
Where's  your  mother?  To  take  advantage  of  my  ab 
sence  in  such  a  way  when  you  knowed  I  was  away 
from  home  and  couldn't  take  care  of  him.  It's  a  pity, 
it's  a  pity  I  couldn't  leave  home  a  minute  to  go  and 
visit  the  only  relations  I  got  an'  some  of  'em  I 
hadn't  saw  for  thirty  years,  but  you  must  go  and — 
Where's  your  mother?  Can't  you  talk?  " 

(You  ought  to  hear  Minnie  De  Wees  get  that  off. 
She  can  do  it  to  perfection.) 

Carrie  Pollock  looked  at  the  mother  in  amaze 
ment. 

"  Why,  what's  the  matter?  "  she  gasped. 

"  They're  tellin'  it  around  that  you're  goin'  to 
marry  Augustus  Biddle,"  said  Frank  Woodmansee. 

"  Who's    tellin'    it    around? "    demanded    Carrie. 


THE    ELOPEMENT  175 

"  I'd  thank  people  to  mind  their  own  business  and 
not  go  'round  with  a  whole  pack  o'  lies  about  other 
folks.  It  ain't  so.  Now!" 

"  I  s'pose  you  don't  know  nothin'  at  all  about  his 
gittin'  a  marriage  license  over  to  Sunbury  to  marry 
you,"  sneered  Mrs.  Biddle.  "  I  s'pose  you  didn't  hear 
nothin'  at  all  about  that." 

"  No,  I  didn't;  not  till  you  jist  now  told  me  I 
didn't  hear  one  word  about  it."  Frank  Woodmansee 
looked  as  if  a  great  load  had  been  taken  off  his  mind. 
Mrs.  Biddle  was  still  suspicious. 

"  I  s'pose  you  want  me  to  think  Augustus  went 
and  got  that  license  and  you  givin'  him  no  encour 
agements  whatever." 

"  Who,  him?  "  Miss  Pollock  bridled  angrily.  "  I 
don't  care  what  you  think.  I  guess  I  don't  go  'round 
tellin'  folks  I'm  a-goin'  to  marry  'em  before  they 
ask  me  to.  I  wish't  you'd  go  on  away  from  here. 
Mr.  Woodmansee,  won't  you  make  her  go  'way?  I 
don't  know  anything  about  your  old  Augustus!  Ma! 
Where's  ma?  Botherin'  the  life  and  soul  out  o'  me 
with  her  old  Augustus!  The  idea!  Ma!"  And  Miss 
Pollock  burst  into  a  fit  of  crying  and  begged  to  be 
taken  into  the  house;  she  never  was  treated  so  in 
her  life;  the  key  to  the  side  door  was  under  the 
kitchen  step,  if  ma  was  out;  she  couldn't  help  it  if 
Augustus  Biddle  took  out  forty  marriage  licenses; 
regular  old  Molly  he  was,  anyhow;  she  wouldn't 


176  FOLKS    BACK    HOME 

have  him  if  he  was  the  last  man  on  earth.  She  wished 
she  had  never  laid  eyes  on  him. 

Mrs.  Biddle  walked  out  of  the  front  gate,  but 
turned  to  see  the  tearful  Miss  Pollock  being  sup 
ported  on  Mr.  Woodmansee's  arm  and  led  into  the 
house,  comforted  by  him  in  words  that  she  could 
not  hear,  but  whose  substantial  import  she  could 
imagine  as  well  as  the  rest  of  the  neighborhood.  It 
gave  her  pride  a  rude  shock  to  hear  her  son  charac 
terized  as  a  "  regular  old  Molly,'*  and  indignantly 
rejected  as  a  possible  husband  by  a  snip  of  a  girl 
that  wasn't  fit  to  black  his  shoes  for  him.  He  was  too 
good  for  her,  so  he  was,  if  she  only  knew  it.  She'd 
tell  her  so  too  the  next  time  she  saw  her.  The  very 
idea! 

Mrs.  Biddle  went  back  to  her  own  house  and  got 
little  Clarence  Longbrake  to  come  over  and  crawl 
through  the  cellar  window  and  open  the  back  door 
for  her.  This  was  her  homecoming;  this  her  wel 
come.  She  went  through  into  the  parlor  and  opened 
the  shutters.  The  plants  she  had  prized  so  highly 
stood  yellow  and  rigid.  She  plucked  a  leaf  and  it 
crackled  in  her  grasp.  Papers  were  scattered  all 
about.  The  bottom  of  the  stove  seemed  bursting 
with  ashes  which  had  spilled  out  on  the  carpet.  The 
bureau  drawers  were  half  pulled  out,  and  from  them 
poured  a  cascade  of  soiled  collars  and  rumpled 
shirts.  All  the  lessons  of  neatness  which  she  had 


THE    ELOPEMENT  177 

taught  him  for  years  were  forgotten  the  minute  her 
back  was  turned.  No;  she  would  not  do  him  that  in 
justice.  He  would  have  been  all  right  if  he  hadn't 
been  led  away.  But  that  the  tender  watch  care  of 
a  mother  all  these  years  should  have  been  as  a  dream 
of  the  night  as  soon  as  a  silly  girl  with  a  doll's  face 
looked  at  him —  Oh,  that  was  hard,  that  was  hard 
to  bear!  This  was  her  homecoming;  this  her  wel 
come.  She  sank  into  a  chair  and  crumbled  the 
dry  leaf  in  her  fingers.  Her  eyes  burned.  She  won 
dered  at  it  a  moment,  for  she  was  a  woman  not 
used  to  weep.  All  of  a  sudden,  she  caught  an  inward, 
quivering  breath  and  the  tempest  of  her  grief  and 
loneliness  burst  forth.  Like  Jeremiah  amid  the  ruins 
of  Jerusalem,  she  wept  as  she  mused  on  the  former 
things. 

But  when  the  storm  had  overpast,  she  roused  her 
self  and  set  about  straightening  up  the  house.  She 
went  out  to  the  grocer's  and  the  butcher's  and  got 
materials  for  supper.  She  expected  Augustus  home 
by  then.  The  potatoes  and  the  coffee  she  set  on  the 
back  of  the  stove  to  keep  warm  for  him.  She  would 
not  fry  the  steak  until  he  got  home.  As  it  grew 
later  and  later  she  went  oftener  to  the  door  to  listen 
for  him.  Once  she  was  sure  she  heard  him  open  the 
front  gate,  but  it  was  only  her  imagination.  At  last 
she  cooked  the  meat  herself  and  sat  down  alone  to 
eat  what  she  could. 


178  FOLKS    BACK    HOME 

As  it  came  on  to  nine  o'clock,  his  bedtime  ever 
since  he  was  twelve  years  old,  she  remembered  that 
his  bed  had  probably  not  been  made  for  the  day. 
One  glance  showed  her  that  it  had  not  been  made 
or  the  linen  changed  since  she  had  left,  and  she  had 
been  so  particular  to  tell  him  about  it.  Something 
saddened  her  as  she  stripped  off  the  sheets,  wrinkled 
and  twisted  into  ropes.  For  thirty  years  he  had  not 
slept  away  from  home,  not  since  the  time  he  had 
gone  with  her  to  York  State  on  a  visit.  How  many 
times  had  she  heard  him  say  his  prayer  at  that 
bed  and  had  called  out  to  him  from  the  sitting 
room: 

"  Good  night!  Sleep  tight!  " 

She  turned  the  covers  back  all  ready  for  him  and 
sat  down  to  wait.  It  was  very  late  for  him.  The  town 
clock  struck  ten.  She  went  into  the  sitting  room  and 
wound  and  set  the  old  clock  on  the  shelf.  Overcome 
by  an  impulse  she  could  not  restrain,  she  went  out 
on  the  back  porch  and,  looking  into  the  blackness 
of  the  night,  called  out  as  of  old  time: 


But  only  an  echo  came  back  to  her.  Slowly  she 
turned  and  went  inside. 


THE    ELOPEMENT  179 

"  The  preacher  didn't  appear  to  notice  where 
you  changed  that  one  into  a  three,  did  he,  Augus 
tus?" 

"  No,"  said  Augustus. 

"  At  any  rate,  he  didn't  say  anything  about  it, 
huh?  " 

"  No,"  said  Augustus. 

"But,  laws!  I  won't  be  thirty-nine  till  November. 
I  was  jist  about  Carrie's  age  now  when  she  was 
born." 

"That  so?" 

"  Uh-huh.  How  old  are  you,  Augustus?  " 

"Who?  Me?  I'll  be  forty  the  last  of  Septem 
ber." 

They  sat  before  the  grate  fire  in  the  bridal  cham 
ber  of  the  Eagle  Hotel  in  Sunbury  after  a  supper 
at  which  the  landlord  had  surpassed  himself.  There 
were  four  kinds  of  cake  and  eight  kinds  of  preserves 
on  the  table,  not  "  boughten  stuff,"  either.  The  land 
lord's  wife  had  put  up  all  the  preserves  herself,  they 
had  so  much  fruit  on  the  lot. 

"What  makes  you  so  still,  Augustus?" 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know." 

A  long  pause. 

"  You  ain't  sorry,  are  you?  " 

"  Huh?  " 

"  I  say,  you  ain't  sorry,  are  you?  " 
*  "  W'y,  no.  Oh,  no,  no." 


i8o  FOLKS    BACK    HOME 

Another  long  pause. 

"  W'y,  what  made  you  think  I  was  sorry?  " 

"  Oh,  nothing,  only  you  was  so  kind  o'  still.  You 
right  sure  you  ain't,  now?  " 

"  W'y,  of  course  not." 

Augustus  sat  looking  at  the  soft-coal  fire  from 
which  now  and  then  a  cinder  fell.  The  woman  rocked 
in  the  rocking  chair  slowlier  and  slowlier.  She 
stopped.  Then  she  spoke  as  one  determined  to  settle 
the  matter  once  and  forever. 

"  Because  if  you  are,"  she  said,  "  you've  only  got 
your  own  self  to  blame,  for  it  won't  be  my  fault  if 
you  don't  have  a  happy  home.  Mr.  Pollock,  he  says 
to  me,  '  Carrie/  he  says — them  was  pretty  near  the 
last  words  he  said  to  me,  that  is  sensible,  for  toward 
the  last  he  was  kind  o'  flighty  and  light-headed — 
'  Carrie,'  he  says  to  me,  '  you've  be'n  a  faithful,  true, 
and  lovin'  wife  to  me,  you  have,'  he  says.  And  so 
I  was,  and  so  I'll  be  to  you,  Augustus.  For  I  could 
have  got  married  many's  the  time  before  this,  as  I 
told  you  this  afternoon  when  we  was  goin'  apast 
Mumma's  place,  but  seem  like  I  didn't  want  to  while 
Carrie  was  little,  but  now  that  she's  growed  up  and 
likely  to  git  Frank  Woodmansee  now  any  day,  I 
don't  deny  but  what  I  was  lookin'  around  some,  and 
I  don't  care;  I  don't  think  'twas  no  more'n  right 
that  I  should,  me  not  bein'  thirty-nine  till  next  No 
vember,  and  jist  in  the  prime  of  life,  as  you  might 


THE    ELOPEMENT  181 

say,  and  what  ud  I  do  if  Carrie  was  to  git  married 
and  me  all  alone  in  that  great  big  house?  And  I  al 
ways  did  like  you,  Augustus.  Seem  like  you  had 
such  nice  ways  about  you  and  understood  a  woman 
so  well.  Mr.  Pollock,  he  was  real  good  to  me,  that 
is,  as  good  as  he  knowed  how,  but  he  was  a  kind  o' 
roughlike  sometimes.  And  then  ag'in  you  ain't  like 
some  o'  these  men  that's  raised  careful.  They're  apt 
to  be  dilicate  and  Nancified,  as  I  told  Carrie.  And 
I  knowed  all  the  time  that  Carrie  was  jist  plumb 
distracted  about  Frank  Woodmansee,  only  he  was 
kind  o'  half  after  me  for  a  while  there,  and  she  only 
took  up  with  you  to  make  him  jealous.  Now,  that's 
jist  the  pine-blank  facts  I'm  a-tellin'  you.  You  mind 
I  told  you  that  when  we  first  started  out  this  after 
noon  so's  to  kind  o'  git  away  from  your  ma  till 
you  got  things  straightened  out  like.  And  I  told  you 
then  jist  like  I  tell  you  now  that  Carrie's  a  nice 
enough  girl,  for  all  she's  my  daughter,  and  I  wouldn't 
say  a  word  ag'in  her  for  the  world,  but  she  ain't 
no  kind  of  a  girl  to  marry  a  man  that's  be'n  brought 
up  for  so  long  by  a  woman  that's  as  good  a  house 
keeper  as  your  mother  is,  because  I  know  she's  a 
good  housekeeper,  for  everybody  says  so,  and  as 
near  as  I  can  find  out,  she  does  jist  exactly  as  I  do 
in  everything,  except  I  always  cook  a  little  car 
rots  with  my  peas.  They  taste  so  much  better  that 
way.  But  I  kin  cook  'em  the  other  way.  Now,  your 


i8a  FOLKS    BACK    HOME 

ma's  punkin'  pie  is  jist  mine  to  a  T,  because  I  tasted 
hern  at  a  social  at  Center  Street  one  time.  And  you 
said  you  got  the  notion  you  wanted  to  git  married, 
and  now  was  your  only  chance  while  your  ma  was 
away,  and  if  you'd  'a*  sispicioned  she  was  a-goin'  to 
come  back  to-day  you'd  'a'  spoke  to  Carrie  before, 
and  you  thought  if  you  got  the  marriage  license  it 
ud  kind  o'  bluff  her  into  takin'  you,  but  it  wouldn't, 
because  I  know  that  girl  too  well,  and  still  you 
didn't  want  to  git  it  in  Minuca  Center,  because  if 
she  didn't  have  you  after  all  how  flat  you'd  feel  and 
all  like  that  and  what  should  you  do,  now  that  you 
had  paid  a  dollar  for  the  license,  and  it  seemed  like 
a  waste  o'  money  not  to  make  some  use  of  it,  and 
you  ast  me  yourself — now,  didn't  you? — if  I  wouldn't 
marry  you,  and  I  said  you  could  change  that  one 
into  a  three  so's  nobody'd  ever  notice  it,  and  it 
would  be  all  right,  for  my  name  is  Carrie  Pollock 
as  well  as  Carrie's  is,  and  you  put  your  arm  around 
me  and  hugged  me  and  kissed  me.  Now,  ain't  that 
so?" 

"  Yes,  that's  so,"  said  Augustus. 

"  Well,"  she  said,  and  began  rocking  again.  She 
seemed  a  little  inclined  to  cry,  but  she  stopped  when 
she  heard  the  big  clock  downstairs  in  the  empty 
dining  room  strike  slowly  and  hoarsely. 

"Ten  o'clock,"  she  said.  "My!  it's  late,  ain't 
it?" 


THE    ELOPEMENT  183 

Augustus  sat  silent  for  a  minute,  and  then  he  cried 
out:  "Hoo!" 

"  I  didn't  say  nothin',"  she  said. 

"  Oh  .  .  .  oh,  .  .  ."  Augustus  seemed  like  one 
waking  from  a  dream.  "  I  thought  I  heard  ma  callin' 
me.  Ho-hum!  I'm  sleepy,  ain't  you?" 


THE    FICTIONAL   MIND 

THERE  is  no  such  thing  as  realism  in  fic 
tion,"  declared  Lippincott,  even  more  dog 
matically  than  if  he  thoroughly  believed 
what  he  was  saying.  "  It  is  a  contradiction  in  terms. 
It  is  the  marvelous  that  interests,  and  no  man  can 
tell  a  marvelous  tale  and  tell  the  truth.  The  people 
won't  have  a  true  story.  They  want  the  mirror  held 
up  to  Nature,  yes,  but  at  such  an  angle  that  the 
sedate  old  dame  appears  another  Nini  Pattes-en-Vair. 
The  fictional  mind  is  at  enmity  against  reason,  for  it 
is  not  subject  to  the  law  of  reason,  neither  indeed  can 
be." 

Scrimgeour  sat  still,  making  lines  on  the  table 
cloth  with  his  fork.  He  was  not  cynical,  for  he  was 
but  three-and-twenty,  and  nothing  ailed  him.  The 
red  in  his  cheeks  clustered  about  a  white  spot  just 
over  his  newly  cut  wisdom  teeth.  That  white  spot 
is  the  sigillum  wherewith  Nature  certifies  the  bache 
lor's  degree  of  Golden  Optimism.  Lippincott,  on  the 
other  hand,  was  entitled  to  be  a  destructive  critic 
of  the  universe,  for  he  had  reached  the  mature  age 
of  thirty-five,  and  in  that  gray  November  light  one 

184 


THE    FICTIONAL    MIND  185 

sees,  if  ever,  the  things  of  life  in  their  true  values. 
Having  no  more  of  his  own  to  dissect,  he  was  ruth 
lessly  ripping  open  Scrimgeour's  dolls  and  scatter 
ing  their  sawdust  all  about. 

Scrimgeour  thought  on  —  or  thought  he  was 
thinking — and  presently  came  out  with:  "Truth  is 
stranger  than  fiction."  He  said  this  with  the  air 
of  a  man  that  has  driven  at  least  one  hen  into  the 
coop. 

"  It  is  seldomer  met  with,"  admitted  Lippincott, 
with  that  superior  smile  that  made  his  friends  often 
wish  to  wring  his  neck,  and  proceeded:  "But  the 
saying  itself  is  an  illustration  of  the  workings  of  the 
fictional  mind.  That  was  what  made  Tertullian  say, 
'  Credo  quia  impossibile  est.'  It  uses  the  paradox  as 
astronomers  use  the  parallax." 

"  For  instance — "  prompted  Scrimgeour. 

"  For  instance,  the  case  of  Judge  Blymire.  He  was 
a  prominent  lawyer  of  Palmyra,  and  had  been 
county  judge  of  Tadmor  County.  He  had  a  son.  We 
were  boys  together.  The  first  Mrs.  Blymire,  a  deli 
cate,  romantic  woman,  lived  long  enough  to  give 
the  baby  a  name  out  of  the  last  novel  she  had  read. 
She  called  him  Percy.  The  Palmyra  boys  democra 
tized  that  to  '  Skinner.'  '  Skinner '  Blymire,"  mused 
Lippincott,  dreamily  letting  his  eyes  relax  their  fo 
cus,  and  in  that  blur,  as  in  the  magician's  drop  of 
ink,  he  saw  again  the  picture  of  the  dusty  streets 


i86  FOLKS    BACK   HOME 

of  an  Ohio  town,  and  the  foolish,  happy,  bare 
footed  boys  playing  there,  as  if  the  years  had  never 
passed.  With  a  sigh,  he  recalled  himself  and  went 
on: 

"  The  judge  married  again  when  Percy  was  four 
years  old.  A  stepmother  for  the  boy.  I  can  see  your 
fictional  mind  prepare  itself  for  a  tale  of  petty  per 
secutions  and  small  cruelties.  Since  the  days  of  Cin 
derella  this  is  what  is  expected  of  stepmothers,  and 
yet  I  never  knew  of  one  that  was  not  scrupulously 
just.  Mrs.  Blymire  was  fairer  to  Percy  than  his  own 
father.  He  used  to  give  the  boy  the  most  terrific 
beatings  for  the  least  failings,  and  was  perpetually 
checking  him  with,  *  Don't  do  this/  and  '  Let  that 
alone.'  He  was  a  precise  man,  and  his  love  for  his 
son  expressed  itself  in  the  effort  to  make  the  lad  a 
perfect  specimen  of  grave  deportment.  Percy  idol 
ized  his  stepmother.  He  loved  her  drolling  and  her 
keen  sense  of  humor,  but  his  father —  It  is  pretty 
hard  when  a  son  hates  his  father. 

"  There  is  an  old  saying:  *  If  you  have  the  name, 
you  might  as  well  have  the  game/  and  when  Skin 
ner  found  that  his  father  was  bound  to  believe  noth 
ing  but  bad  of  him  he  apparently  did  what  he  could 
to  justify  the  belief.  And  yet  I  know  now  that  there 
was  no  evil  in  the  boy,  only  mischief.  He  began  to 
run  with  a  wild  crowd  of  quacking-voiced  young 
fellows,  and  sometimes  they  were  out  till  as  late 


THE    FICTIONAL   MIND  187 

as  ten  and  eleven  o'clock  at  night.  One  Saturday 
evening,  he  and  four  or  five  other  hobble-de-hoys 
that  had  been  swimming  at  the  Copperas  Banks,  be 
low  town,  came  through  the  deadly  still  streets  of 
Palmyra,  cutting  up  and  singing  after  the  fashion 
of  their  kind.  It  is  exasperating,  I  grant  you,  but 
it  is  not  the  greatest  sin.  Bill  McPherson,  the  police 
force  of  the  town,  checked  them  in  his  bossy,  im 
portant  way.  They  sauced  him,  and  he  arrested 
Charley  Payne.  Took  him  by  the  collar  and  tore  it 
off.  The  boy  struck  at  him  in  anger.  Then  Bill 
clubbed  him,  and  Skinner  and  the  rest  interfered.  He 
declared  them  all  under  arrest,  and  those  that  didn't 
get  away  he  charged  with  rioting,  disorderly  con 
duct,  resisting  an  officer — pretty  nearly  every  mis 
demeanor  on  the  books,  I  think. 

. "  Word  was  sent  to  the  parents,  and  they  came 
and  bailed  out  their  sons.  All  except  Judge  Blymire. 
He  let  Percy  stay  in  jail.  Depend  upon  it,  before  the 
last  bell  rang  for  church  next  morning,  the  whole 
town  knew  all  about  it,  and  how  the  judge  had  said 
to  Mrs.  Blymire:  '  If  he'd  been  home  at  nine  o'clock, 
like  I  told  him  to,  this  wouldn't  have  happened.  I 
hope  it  will  be  a  lesson  to  him.' 

"  We  all  looked  at  the  Blymire  pew,  but  only  the 
judge  and  his  wife  stood  up  at  the  *  Dearly  beloved 
brethren,  the  Scripture  moveth  us  in  sundry  places.' 
We  hoped  that  something  would  move  the  old  man, 


i88  FOLKS    BACK    HOME 

but  he  stiffened  himself  with  anything  but  '  an  hum 
ble,  lowly,  penitent,  and  obedient  heart/  He  knew 
that  the  people  were  looking  at  him  and  whisper 
ing,  but  he  was  sure  that  he  was  doing  the  right 
thing  for  his  son's  temporal  and  eternal  welfare.  I 
watched  Alice  Prouty,  for  she  and  Percy  were  boy- 
and-girl  sweethearts  as  all  Palmyra  knew.  It  was 
plain  that  she  had  been  crying. 

"  I  remember  going  past  and  looking  at  the  un 
responsive  jail  windows  that  hot  Sunday  afternoon 
and  wondering  what  was  happening  to  Skinner.  A.s 
I  lingered,  Bill  McPherson  came  along,  dragging  a 
drunken  woman  he  had  arrested  over  across  the 
tracks.  She  had  been  fighting,  and  she  was  scream 
ing  out  such  words  as  made  all  the  windows  of  the 
houses  near  the  jail  come  down  in  a  hurry,  stifling 
though  the  day  was.  After  she  was  locked  up,  I 
could  hear  her  yelling,  the  bare  walls  of  the  cala 
boose  making  her  voice  sound  hollow,  as  if  some 
one  were  speaking  in  a  cistern. 

"  I  have  often  pictured  the  boy  lying  on  the  bare 
board  in  his  dark  cell,  weeping  himself  to  sleep 
that  Saturday  night,  rousing  at  intervals  to  weep 
again  at  the  thought  that  he  alone  of  all  his  com 
panions  was  left  to  endure  its  shame.  I  can  fancy 
him  waking  at  the  first  blush  of  day,  sore  on  his  hips 
and  shoulders  from  his  hard  bed,  alive  again  to  his 
misery  which  merciful  sleep  had  removed  far  from 


THE    FICTIONAL   MIND  189 

him  for  a  few  hours.  The  jailer  gives  him  his  half 
loaf  of  sour  bakers'  bread  and  the  long  tin  cup  of 
water.  Then  he  sits  and  waits.  He  hears  the  church 
bells  ringing,  and  he  knows  that  the  other  boys  are 
out  on  the  streets  talking — about  him — and  his 
throat  swells  again  and  his  eyes  smart  with  the  salt 
tears.  Then  comes  stillness,  broken  only  by  the  buzz 
ing  of  the  bluebottles  against  the  high-up,  immov 
able  windows.  He  watches  the  streaks  of  sunlight 
slide  slowly  along  the  wall;  he  reads  what  pred 
ecessors  have  written  on  the  plaster,  and  his  soul 
gags  at  it.  Is  he  such  as  that?  The  loneliness  is  un 
bearable,  and  then  comes  this  yelling  woman — he 
thought  it  was  his  father  relented  at  last — and,  as 
he  hears  her  cursing  for  hours  together,  how  gladly 
would  he  have  back  that  loneliness!  v 

"  When  I  think  of  all  this,  I  cannot  see  how  Judge 
Blymire  could  have  let  his  son  stay  there  one  hour. 
Yet  he  thought  it  was  for  the  boy's  good.  He  suf 
fered,  too,  but  it  was  as  the  Roman  father  suffered. 
Never  was  there  a  juster  judge  on  the  Tadmor 
County  bench.  It  was  Mrs.  Blymire  that  saved  Percy 
from  working  out  his  fine  on  the  stone  pile.  When 
she  saw  that  persuasion  would  not  soften  that  hard 
old  heart,  she  '  put  her  foot  down/  and  the  judge 
went  to  the  mayor's  court  Monday  morning  and 
brought  Percy  back  with  him. 

"  '  Take  off  your  coat,  sir,'  he  said  sternly. 


190  FOLKS    BACK   HOME 

"  '  What  are  you  going  to  do,  father?  '  asked  Mrs. 
Blymire. 

"  '  I'm  going  to  give  this  young  man  the  soundest 
whipping  he  ever  had/  he  answered. 

"  *  No.  He  has  been  punished  enough.  If  you  beat 
him,  you  must  beat  me,  too.'  And  the  judge,  as  he 
looked  into  her  eyes,  saw  that  he  was  a  conquered 
man. 

"  From  that  day  Percy  treated  his  father  with  a 
cold  deference  that  was  more  insolent  than  words. 
There  was  a  lot  of  the  Blymire  in  him,  too.  His 
mother  hoped  for  the  best  and  tried  to  smooth 
things  over,  but  one  morning  something  went 
wrong  in  court,  and  the  judge  came  home  to  his 
midday  dinner  cross.  Percy  declined  some  dish,  and 
the  judge  snarled  at  him:  'I  suppose  it  ain't  good 
enough  for  my  gentleman.  He's  more  used  to  bread 
and  water/ 

"  '  The  right  kind  of  a  father  wouldn't  have  left 
his  son  to  taste  the  bread  and  water,'  impudently 
declared  Percy. 

"  '  Don't  you  answer  back  to  me,  you  young  jail 
bird.  Are  you  going  to  eat  that? ' 

" '  No.' 

"  '  Then  get  away  from  my  table.  If  you  don't  like 
what's  set  before  you,  provide  for  yourself.' 

"  *  Father,  you  don't  mean  that,'  protested  Mrs. 
Blymire. 


THE    FICTIONAL    MIND  191 

" '  I  do.  Every  word  of  it.'  But  he  knew  in  his 
heart  that  he  was  more  in  anger  than  in  earnest. 

"  Percy  flung  out  of  the  room,  ran  upstairs,  and 
a  few  minutes  later,  as  they  sat  in  silence,  they  heard 
the  front  door  slam.  The  father  ate  stolidly,  pretend 
ing  not  to  hear.  When  he  had  gone,  Mrs.  Blymire 
found  on  her  dressing  table  a  penciled  note  from 
Percy,  bidding  her  good-by,  thanking  her  for  her 
kindness  to  him,  but  wishing  never  to  see  his  father 
again  in  life.  That  wish  came  true.  They  never 
looked  into  each  other's  face  after  that  day,  for  one's 
eyes  had  closed  in  death  when  the  other  bent  over 
him. 

"  Poor  Alice!  She  and  Mrs.  Blymire  mingled  their 
tears  as  she  told  how  Percy  had  said  to  her  he  was 
going  away;  he  didn't  say  where,  but  she  was  never 
to  forget  him. 

"  The  judge  refused  to  believe  that  the  boy  had 
run  away  for  good.  He  expected  to  smile  trium 
phantly  at  the  ragged,  frowzy  wanderer  creeping 
back  after  dusk  and  humbly  tapping  at  the  kitchen 
door.  It  hurt  him  more,  though,  than  he  could  own, 
even  to  himself,  that  his  son  should  leave  him  so,  and 
often  his  heart  stopped  to  hearken  to  the  cracking 
of  the  woodwork  in  the  far-along  stillness  of  the 
night,  but  it  was  only  a  tired  beam  stretching  itself, 
and  not  the  knuckle  of  the  returning  prodigal. 
When  it  was  too  late,  he  obeyed  Mrs.  Blymire's  ad- 


i92  FOLKS    BACK    HOME 

vice  to  employ  detectives,  but  no  word  ever  came 
from  the  wandering  boy,  not  even  a  line  to  his 
mother.  I  don't  see  why  she  should  have  been  made 
to  suffer  for  another's  fault,  but  then  women  have 
been  doing  that  since  Time  began. 

"  The  chill  nights  lengthened  into  the  frozen 
nights,  and  their  house  was  still  left  unto  them 
desolate.  In  my  memory  there  is  a  silhouette  of  the 
judge  standing  at  his  library  window,  blue  against 
the  orange  light  of  the  soft-coal  fire.  Overhead,  the 
moon  shone  fitfully  through  the  clouds,  torn  by  the 
bleak  wind  that  made  the  big  pines  in  the  Blymire 
dooryard  moan  and  whisper  to  themselves.  He 
peered  out  as  if  watching  for  a  slim  young  figure 
that  never  darkened  the  snows. 

"  Neighbors  noticed  that  there  was  always  a  light 
in  the  kitchen  of  nights,  and  once  Abby  Lumbart, 
who  had  been  help  at  the  judge's  ever  since  Percy 
was  born,  let  it  out  accidentally  that  she  had  to  set 
out  a  *  cold  piece '  every  night.  She  was  so  embar 
rassed  and  made  such  haste  to  explain  that  it  was 
for  the  judge,  who  had  a  way  of  waking  up  hungry 
along  about  two  or  three  o'clock  in  the  morning, 
that  the  neighbors  pounced  down  on  the  news,  like 
a  hawk  on  a  pullet,  and  it  was  not  very  long  be 
fore  all  Palmyra  knew  about  the  '  cold  piece,'  and 
guessed  it  was  for  Percy,  in  case  he  should  return 
unexpectedly  late  at  night. 


THE    FICTIONAL    MIND  193 

"  It  was  Mrs.  Blymire's  constant  task  to  combat 
the  judge's  notion  that  the  boy  had  taken  to  a  life 
of  crime.  It  clung  to  the  old  man  with  the  per 
sistence  of  a  fixed  idea.  But  nobody  outside  the 
family  dreamed  of  it  until  after  he  began  to  sub 
scribe  for  the  Enquirer.  He  had  long  abhorred  it 
with  the  intense  hatred  of  a  war-time  Republican 
for  a  Copperhead  newspaper.  He  made  some  excuse 
at  the  time  about  reading  what  the  Democrats  had 
to  say  for  themselves,  but  that  was  universally  re 
jected  as  being  unsatisfactory.  Elmer  Cox,  who  was 
reading  law  in  the  judge's  office,  observed  that  he 
did  not  look  at  the  political  articles  at  all,  but  pored 
over  the  criminal  news,  which  is  very  fully  given  in 
that  paper.  One  day  the  old  man  nearly  fainted  at 
the  sight  of  a  paragraph.  He  read  it  again  and  again. 
Finally  he  cut  it  out  and  put  it  in  his  pocketbook. 
He  seemed  so  distressed  that  Elmer  Cox  rested  not 
till  he  got  Henry  Enright's  Enquirer  and  found,  in 
the  place  that  the  judge  had  scissored  out,  a  dis 
patch  under  a  Muncie  date  about  a  burglar  named 
Blimeyer  breaking  into  a  citizen's  house  and  being 
wounded  by  the  man's  shooting  a  load  of  bird  shot 
into  his  legs.  The  second  day's  story  corrected  the 
name  to  Bill  Meyer,  and  added  that  the  man  was  an 
old  thief  and  '  second-story  crook/  Elmer  Cox  no 
ticed  what  a  load  was  taken  from  the  old  judge's 
mind,  and  it  was  the  sentiment  of  the  whole  com- 


i94  FOLKS    BACK   HOME 

munity,  to  whom  Elmer  Cox  reported  all  that  he 
saw  and  much  that  he  imagined,  that  Blymire  con 
fidently  expected  all  kinds  of  '  onriness  '  of  Skin 
ner,  and  that  he  had  nobody  but  himself  to  blame 
for  it  if  the  boy  did  go  wrong  and  wind  up  behind 
the  bars. 

"  One  day,  about  nine  or  ten  years  after  Percy 
had  disappeared,  the  judge  was  called  up  to  Marion 
to  try  a  case,  and  in  the  afternoon,  too  late  to  bank 
it,  quite  a  large  sum  of  money  was  paid  to  him  in 
settlement  of  account  of  an  estate  for  which  he  was 
administrator.  He  was  stopping  at  the  Johnson 
House,  but  fell  in  with  two  old  cronies,  and  forgot 
to  put  the  money  in  the  hotel  safe.  It  was  a  warm 
night  in  the  early  June,  so  unseasonably  warm  that 
the  judge  found  it  hard  to  go  to  sleep,  and  so  lay 
awake  for  some  time,  musing  on  what  had  happened 
in  court  during  the  day  and  trying  to  forecast  what 
was  to  come  on  the  morrow.  Whether  he  slept  or 
woke,  he  suddenly  became  conscious  of  another 
presence  in  the  room.  Rousing  to  full  sense,  he  saw 
against  the  pale  square  of  the  open  window  the 
black  shape  of  the  stranger.  The  faint  clink  of  silver 
told  the  judge  that  the  thief  was  fumbling  in  the 
pockets  of  the  trousers  hung  over  the  chair  back. 
He  smiled  grimly  in  the  darkness  to  think  that  the 
pickings  would  be  but  scant,  and  put  his  hand  un 
der  the  pillow  where  his  pocketbook,  with  the 


THE    FICTIONAL    MIND  195 

widow's  money  in  it,  neighbored  with  his  revolver. 
The  touch  of  the  cross-hatched  butt  suggested  the 
question  of  his  legal  right  to  kill  the  burglar,  and 
his  hand  closed  around  the  conformable  shape.  All 
men  would  justify  his  act,  and  the  jury  would  acquit 
him  without  leaving  the  box.  But  why  slay  a  man  for 
thirty-five  cents? 

"  The  click  of  his  watch  guard  reminded  him  that 
he  stood  to  lose  something  prized  highly,  a  gold 
watch  that  cost  $120,  presented  to  him  by  the  Tad- 
mor  County  bar  at  the  expiration  of  his  term  on  the 
bench. 

"  '  Drop  that! '  he  shouted. 

"  The  burglar  wheeled  quickly,  and  the  next  in 
stant  there  blazed  a  dazzling  light,  there  came  an 
ear-splitting  crash,  and  something  struck  the  pillow 
a  vicious  blow.  The  thief  waited  an  instant  to  see 
if  his  shot  had  taken  effect. 

"  That  instant  was  the  one  that  the  judge,  a  squir 
rel  hunter  of  renown  in  his  younger  days,  chose  to 
aim  at  the  figure  between  him  and  the  velvet  sky, 
powdered  with  faint  stars.  His  shot  was  followed 
by  a  coughing  grunt  and  a  long  whimper.  Then  the 
figure  toppled  out  of  the  window  to  the  ground  with 
a  dull  thump,  and  lay  there  a  formless  blot  in  the 
gloom. 

"  In  another  second  the  whole  hotel  was  alive. 
Guests  came  thronging  in,  buzzing  with  inquiries. 


196  FOLKS    BACK   HOME 

Through  a  back  door,  suddenly  jerked  open, 
streamed  a  yellow  trapezium  of  light  illuminating 
the  man  bubbling  his  life  away  on  the  grass. 

"  '  That's  the  man  I  shot! '  cried  the  judge.  '  I  did 
it  in  self-defense.  He  shot  at  me  first.  Before  God, 
it  was  not  murder! ' 

"  He  hurriedly  dressed  and  ran  down  the  stairs. 

"  As  he  reached  the  little  group,  the  dying  man's 
legs  drew  up  and  extended  tremorously,  and  then 
lay  still  forever. 

"  '  I  guess  he's  dead  all  right/  said  the  night  clerk, 
and  set  the  lamp  down  on  the  ground  while  he  rolled 
the  body  so  that  the  light  shone  on  the  face.  As  the 
features  appeared,  the  judge  groaned,  reeled,  and 
fell  heavily." 

Lippincott  paused  and  then  added:  "  He  never 
regained  consciousness.  They  took  him  home,  and 
a  week  later  he  died.  Toward  the  last  they  heard 
him  say:  'I  killed  him — I  didn't  know — '  The  rest 
was  silence." 

"Killed  his  own  son!"  whispered  Scrimgeour, 
pallid  with  horror. 

"Strangely  enough,"  continued  Lippincott,  as  if 
he  did  not  hear,  "  within  an  hour  after  the  judge's 
death,  who  should  drive  up  to  the  door  but  Percy 
and  his  wife  and  baby?  It  was  a  hard  blow  to  him 
that  he  could  not  show  to  the  old  man  his  grandson 
and  namesake,  the  pledge  of  filial  forgiveness." 


THE   FICTIONAL   MIND  197 

Scrimgeour  stared  at  him  in  amaze  and  then  burst 
out  with:  "  But  you  just  now  said  that  the  judge 
killed  Percy.  Shot  him." 

"  Not  I.  The  man  the  judge  killed  was  named 
Shafer." 

"But  how  could  Alice  marry  Percy  without " 

"  Alice  didn't  marry  Percy.  She  is  Mrs.  Charles 
Douthirt.  Who  ever  knew  child  lovers  to  mate  in 
mature  life?  Don't  you  see  that  you  are  the  victim 
of  the  fictional  mind?  It  was  the  most  unlikely  thing 
in  the  world  that  the  judge  should  slay  his  own  son, 
but  that  was  the  only  thing  you  believed  could 
hap " 

"  Oh,  dry  up!  "  interrupted  the  angry  Scrimgeour. 


THE   MAKIN'S   OF   ABEL  HORN 


DIDN'T  I  tell  you!"  said  Brother  Otho  Lit- 
tell  to  his  clerk,  Clarence  Bowersox.  "  I 
jox,  if  he  don't  beat  the  Dutch,  that  feller." 

Clarence  had  removed  his  apron  and  was  getting 
into  his  overcoat.  It  was  cold  out,  remarkably  cold 
for  the  middle  of  December,  and  he  was  hungry  for 
his  breakfast  after  opening  up  and  getting  the  gro 
cery  ready  against  Mr.  Littell  came  down.  He 
paused  to  get  a  good  grip  on  his  coat  sleeve  and 
to  prepare  the  torn  lining  of  his  overcoat  sleeve 
before  he  inquired:  "  What  feller?  " 

"  W'y,  Abel  Horn." 

"  What's  he—  Well,  dod  blast  the  daggone  thing, 
anyhow!  I  got  to  get  married  or  git  a  new  overcoat, 
I  do'  know  which.  What's  he  up  to  now?  " 

"  W'y,  you  know  that  there  Christmas-tree  cele 
bration  we're  goin'  to  have  to  our  church " 

"  Is  he  goin'  to  be  Santy  Claus?  " 

"  Urn,"  assented  Brother  Littell,  taking  a  chew 
of  fine  cut  and  masticating  it  mournfully.  Brother 

198 


THE  MAKIN'S   OF  ABEL  HORN       199 

Littell  had  had  hopes  of  being  struck  by  lightning 
himself.  He  had  not  more  than  hinted  his  ambition 
to  his  wife  and  to  Clarence,  but  he  was  a  prominent 
member  of  Center  Street  M.  E.;  he  had  taught  in 
the  Sunday  school  for  years;  he  had  given  twenty 
pounds  of  candy  and  a  box  of  oranges  to  be  divided 
up  among  the  children,  and  he  was,  as  he  said, 
"  about  the  right  build  and  heft  for  old  Santy,"  so 
he  had  thought  that  perhaps  he  might  be  recog 
nized.  He  felt  it  something  of  a  slight  that  though 
he  was  a  member  of  the  committee  nobody  had 
even  so  much  as  mentioned  his  name,  but  the 
prize  had  been  given  to  Abel  Horn  as  a  matter  of 
course. 

"  W'y,  that  little  sawed-off,  dried-up,  peaked  end 
o'  nothin'! "  snorted  Clarence,  this  time  succeed 
ing  with  his  sleeve  and  donning  the  overcoat  by  a 
series  of  humps  and  jumps.  "What  call  has  he  to 
be  Santy  Claus?  How'd  they  ever  come  to  pick  on 
him?"  ' 

"  I  jox,  I  d'  know,"  said  Brother  Littell.  "  They 
did,  though.  Told  me  once,  he  did:  '  I  never  growed 
a  inch  tell  I  was  sixteen,  and  then  I  shot  up  luck  a 
weed.'  Huh!"  Mr.  Littell  could  not  talk  two  min 
utes  about  Abel  Horn  without  repeating  this  joke, 
for  Abel's  shortness  was  proverbial. 

"Well,  Judas  priest!  don't  you  folks  to  Center 
Street  git  about  enough  o'  him  every  Sunday,  lead- 


200  FOLKS    BACK    HOME 

in*  the  singin',  startin'  in  before  everybody  and 
hangin'  on  after  everybody  gits  through?  " 

"  I  d'  know's  we're  any  worse  'n  some  others. 
Comp'ny  K  don't  appear  to  be  any  ways  capable  of 
throwin'  off  the  yoke,"  retorted  Brother  Littell. 
Clarence  was  a  corporal  in  Company  K,  and  when 
they  got  up  "  The  Drummer  Boy  of  Shiloh  "  he  had 
entertained  hopes  of  being  chosen  to  play  the  hero. 
He  also  had  his  little  ambitions.  He  had  studied 
elocution  and  was  a  subscriber  to  The  Dramatic  Mir 
ror,  but  when  that  thrilling  drama  of  the  Civil  War 
was  presented  at  Melodeon  Hall  the  best  part  he 
could  get  was  Orderly  to  General  Grant,  while  Abel 
Horn  was  cast  for  the  hero.  When  Company  K  had 
the  walking  match  and  Private  Lafe  Henderson, 
amateur,  walked  against  Miss  Elsa  von  Baum,  pro 
fessional  pedestrian,  Clarence  was  to  have  been  the 
announcer,  but  Abel  Horn  got  in  ahead  of  him  there, 
too. 

Remembering  these  things,  Clarence  took  his 
thumb  off  the  latch  and  returned  to  Mr.  Littell. 

"  How  does  he  do  it?  That's  what  I  want  to 
know,"  he  demanded  fiercely.  "  He  don't  ever  think 
o*  things  first.  He  don't  hustle  'round  and  git  up 
su'scriptions  or  advertisements  for  the  programmes. 
He  don't  see  to  the  printin'  or  do  one  formed  haet, 
as  fur  as  I  can  see,  to  make  the  entertainment  a 
sucksess,  and  yit  his  name  is  always  first  on  the  list 


THE  MAKIN'S  OF  ABEL  HORN  201 
and  he  crowds  in  to  be  head  man  in  everything.  You 
tell  me  how  he  does  it." 

Apparently  Brother  Littell  refused  to  divulge  the 
secret.  He  pursed  up  his  lips,  opened  the  stove  door, 
and  spat  genteelly  on  the  coals. 

"  Tain't  as  if  he  was  a  big,  fine-lookin'  feller,  like 
Mose  Tuttle,"  persisted  Clarence,  "  or  spoke  his 
words  nice  like —  Well,  like  Henry  Miller,  though 
he  ain't  never  studied  elocution;  or  was  a  comical 
actor  like  Mr.  BoZenta,  or  could  play  the  piano  like 
Charley  Pope,  or  sing  nice  like  Doc  Avery.  He  ain't 
got  any  accomplishment,  only  jist  gall.  Folks  laugh 
at  him,  but  they  let  him  ride  over  'em,  jist  the  same. 
Now,  why  is  it?  " 

"  I  jox,  I  d'  know,"  said  Mr.  Littell  thoughtfully. 
He  was  remembering  what  his  wife  had  said  to  him 
the  night  before  when  he  came  home  and  told  her 
what  the  committee  had  decided  upon.  "  Huh! "  she 
said.  "  Huh!  And  you  set  there  and —  Well,  if  I  was 
a  man  I'd  be  a  man  and  not  let  myself  be  led  around 
by  any  such  Johnny-fly-up-the-creek  as  Abel  Horn. 
I'd  'a'  told  him.  No,  sir,  he  couldn't  run  the  whole 
shebang  all  the  time,  and  from  everlastin'  to  ever- 
lastin'.  Why,  pa,  whatever  possessed  you? "  Mr. 
Littell  said  then  as  he  said  now:  "  I  jox,  I  d'  know." 

"  Pity  he  couldn't  do  somepin  with  all  that  natch- 
erl  ability  o'  his'n  for  blanneyin'  folks  into  doin' 
what  he  wants  'em  to,"  sneered  Clarence,  forgetting 


202  FOLKS    BACK    HOME 

how  his  breakfast  was  cooling  at  the  Widow  Par 
ker's,  where  he  boarded.  "  Pity  he  couldn't  go  into 
business  and  make  his  everlastin'  fortune." 

"  I  jox!  I  bet  you  he  could  if  he  was  to  try  once/' 
said  Brother  Littell.  "  He  ain't  never  got  around 
to  it,  though.  Two  or  three  times  when  he  was  a 
boy  he  wanted  to  quit  school  and  go  to  work,  but, 
no,  sir!  she  wouldn't  have  it.  She  wasn't  goin'  to 
have  her  Abel  ordered  around  by  common  folks.  She 
was  goin'  to  bring  him  up  a  gentleman.  He  wanted 
to  go  into  business,  but  they  was  so  much  hemmin' 
and  hawin'  about  her  lettin'  him  have  the  capital 
that  it  all  fell  through." 

"  Cuts  everybody  out  o'  everything,"  Clarence 
jawed  on,  "  but  I  take  notice  he  can't  git  married. 
The  girls  don't  want  to  take  up  with  no  sech  little, 
insignificant-lookin'  thing." 

"  Aw,  now,  don't  you  fool  yourself,  Clarence," 
corrected  Mr.  Littell,  taking  his  foot  down  from  the 
fender.  "  They  ain't  no  man,  Clarence,  I  don't  keer 
how  insignificant-lookin'  he  is  or  how  onry  he  is, 
that  can't  git  married  to  a  good  woman  if  he  wants 
to." 

"  Then  how  come  Abel  don't?  He  flies  around 
amongs'  'em  enough  to  be  a  marryin'  man." 

"  On  account  of  his  ma,  I  tell  you.  She  made  him 
promise  her  he  wouldn't  git  married  whilst  she  was 
alive.  Oh,  don't  you  tell  me  what  you'd  do  and  what 


THE  MAKIN'S  OF  ABEL  HORN  203 
you  wouldn't  do.  You  don't  know  that  woman.  For 
all  she's  so  giggly  and  gushy  she  makes  him  walk 
a  chalk  when  he's  with  her.  He  can  ride  over  other 
folks,  but  he  don't  dass  to  say  his  soul's  his  own 
around  home,  ner  his  pa,  either,  when  he  was  alive. 
Abel  flies  around  amongs'  'em,  yes,  but  not  stiddy 
with  any  one  girl,  if  you  take  notice.'5 

"Lide  Burkhart" 

"  Oh,  well,  Lide.  He's  be'n  goin'  with  Lide  now 
sence  she  put  on  long  dresses.  Went  with  all  her 
sisters,  too.  Looks  like  Lide's  elected  to  stay  at 
home.  Darn  shame,  too.  Pick  o'  the  whole  tribe,  I 
say.  Pretty  girl  and  a  good  girl." 

"  Right  old  for  a  girl,"  commented  Clarence 
dryly. 

"  O  pshaw!  O  pshaw!  She  don't  look  a  day  over 
twenty-nine.  I  d'  know's  she  is  much  either.  She 
took  off  that  part  in  '  The  Drummer  Boy '  reel  nice, 
didn't  she?  " 

"  Aw,  say !  She  was  all  right,  now,  I  tell  you ! " 
declared  the  enthusiastic  Clarence.  "  No  discountin' 
her.  She's  got  reel  ability.  You  know  that  place 
where  she  comes  in  an'  says " 

"  Folks  talked  it  around  that  that  was  about  the 
first  time  her  and  Abel  ever  got  a  right  good  chance 
to  make  love  like  they  wanted  to,"  interrupted 
Brother  Littell,  with  more  meaning  in  his  words 
than  Clarence  appreciated. 


204  FOLKS    BACK    HOME 

"  Her  actin'  in  the  love  scenes  was  all  right.  But 
he  was  rotten.  W'y,  when  he  come  back  from  the 
war,  you  know,  and  everybody  thought  he  was  dead, 
and  he  throwed  his  arms  around  her — fine  situation. 
I  wisht  I'd  'a'  had  that  part— w'y,  the  top  o'  his 
head  didn'  more'n  come  up  to  her  chin.  Jist  killed 
the  scene.  No  heart  interest.  It  was  jist  funny." 

"  You  run  along  now  and  gitch  breakfast.  Sist' 
Parker'll  be  in  my  wool  lettin'  you  keep  the  break 
fast  dishes  standin'  so  long." 

"  Better  order  in  some  more  sugar.  We're  about 
out,  and  they'll  be  a  big  call  for  it  for  their  pies  and 
puddens  and  things." 

"  I  jox!  I  meant  to  do  that  yesterday.  Them's  nice 
cranberries,  ain't  they?  I  d'  know's  I  ever  seen  any 
nicer.  You  run  along  now  and  gitch  breakfast  and 
hurry  right  back." 

In  one  way  it  would  have  made  Abel  Horn  feel 
bad  to  know  what  people  said  about  him.  Nobody 
likes  to  be  laughed  at.  In  another  way,  it  would  have 
pleased  him.  Everybody  likes  to  be  envied.  He  had 
good  enough  opinion  of  himself  to  be  able  to  treat 
the  talk  of  some  "  with  silent  contempt,"  as  the 
phrase  goes,  or  to  "  take  it  from  whence  it  came," 
as  another  phrase  goes.  As  for  the  other  people,  he 
knew  that  they  liked  him.  Nobody  could  help  doing 
that,  for  Abel  was  as  good  as  wheat.  He  would  have 
known  that  if  they  resented  his  officiousness  it  was 


THE   MAKIN'S   OF   ABEL  HORN        205 

just  as  we  resent  the  officiousness  of  a  police  officer 
and  yet  we  would  not  be  without  the  policeman. 

Abel  was  popular  with  the  "  younger  crowd,"  and, 
even  if  old  Marinus  Moran  declared  that  he  had  for 
got  more  religion  than  Abel  Horn  ever  knew,  and 
Uncle  Billy  Nicholson  and  a  few  more  of  them  up 
in  the  Amen  corner  were  opposed  to  him  for  having 
the  choir  sing  voluntaries  before  meeting  took  up, 
the  "  older  crowd  "  recognized  the  fact  that  Abel's 
membership  in  Center  Street  M.  E.  was  no  occa 
sion  for  stumbling,  and  his  loud  and  tireless  leading 
of  the  singing  at  protracted  meeting  time  was  a 
great  help.  Brother  Nicholson  was  a  little  behind 
the  times,  anyhow.  He  was  opposed  to  oyster  sup 
pers  in  the  church  parlors,  and  just  now  was  going 
about  like  a  roaring  lion  raging  against  having  a 
Christmas  tree  and  Santa  Claus. 

On  the  other  hand,  Abel  was  thought  to  have  be 
haved  badly  in  regard  to  Lide  Burkhart.  At  one 
time  everybody  was  sure  he  was  going  to  marry  Lide 
whether  or  no,  but  as  time  went  on  the  town  settled 
down  to  the  belief  that  Abel  had  let  his  mother  bluff 
him  out  of  it.  He  still  went  with  Lide,  and  always 
saw  her  home  from  choir  meeting,  but  he  went  with 
other  girls,  too,  so  it  was  concluded  that  he  was 
not  even  engaged  to  her. 

Everybody  said:  "Look  at  it  in  a  business  way, 
of  course  Abel'd  be  foolish  to  take  a  wife  to  sup- 


206  FOLKS    BACK   HOME 

port  when  he  didn't  have  no  way  of  purvidin'  for 
her.  He  never  learnt  a  trade  and  never  had  no  busi 
ness  experience.  And  it  'u'd  be  Jerush'  Horn  all  over 
to  turn  him  out  with  jist  the  clothes  to  his  back. 
She'll  have  her  own  way  if  she  busts  a  hamestring." 

Nevertheless,  lovers  are  expected  to  do  rash 
things,  and  if  Abel  Horn  had  defied  his  mother  all  the 
town  would  have  "  gloried  in  his  spunk,"  even  if 
they  had  not  found  employment  for  him.  Jobs  are 
scarce  in  Minuca  Center. 

But  what  about  Lide  Burkhart?  The  women  folks 
said  that  if  she  was  left  an  old  maid  it  was  her  own 
fault,  and  they  didn't  pity  her  one  bit.  She  always 
did  think  herself  a  little  above  anybody  else.  If  she 
didn't  have  any  more  pluck  than  to —  Well,  what 
was  the  use?  It  was  her  own  affair,  and  if  she  didn't 
care  any  more  than  she  let  on  to,  why,  it  wasn't 
any  hide  off  their  backs  as  far  as  they  could  see.  But 
still  .  .  . 

And  that  "  but  still  "  meant  a  great  deal,  please 
remember.  As  Minnie  De  Wees  said:  "These  here 
long  engagements,  you  needn't  tell  me.  There's  a 
nigger  in  the  woodpile,  somewheres  or  somewheres 
else.  Now  you  mark." 

II 

It  was  a  curious  fact  that  Abel  should  take  so 
much  less  interest  in  being  Santa  Claus  than  his 


THE  MAKIN'S  OF  ABEL  HORN  207 
mother.  Wouldn't  you  think,  now,  that  a  spare,  wiry, 
little  man  would  regard  his  selection  for  such  a  part 
as  the  highest  possible  tribute  to  his  powers  of  per 
suasion?  His  mother  did  and  chuckled  over  it  no 
little,  but  Abel  did  not  seem  to  care  much.  She 
dragged  it  out  of  him  bit  by  bit,  what  he  said  to 
them  and  what  they  said  to  him,  how  Brother  Lit- 
tell  had  asked  if  it  oughtn't  to  be  a  kind  of  "  pussy," 
heavy-set  man,  because  Santa  Claus  was  kind  of 
"  pussy "  and  heavy-set  in  the  pictures,  and  how 
Abel  had  said,  no,  it  would  be  better  to  have  an 
active,  light  man  to  climb  down  on  the  scantlings 
of  which  the  scenic  chimney  was  to  be  built  at  the 
back  of  the  pulpit  platform. 

"  He  was  hintin',"  said  Mrs.  Horn,  winking  as 
she  bit  off  her  thread.  "  He  was  puttin'  in  a  good 
word  for  himself  there.  What  they  goin'  to  do  with 
the  sofy?" 

Abel  said  nothing,  but  stared  at  the  stove. 

"  What  they  goin'  to  do  with  the  sofy,  I  ast  you?  " 

"  What  sofy?  " 

"  What  sofy?  W'y,  the  sofy  Brother  Longenecker 
sets  on,  o'  course.  What  they  goin'  to  do  with  it? 
Take  it  into  the  study?  " 

"Oh,  the  sofy.  W'y— ah " 

"  W'y  what?  "  snapped  his  mother  after  waiting 
long  enough  for  Abel  to  come  out  of  his  trance. 

"  W'y,  they're  goin'  to  leave  it  there  and  build 


208  FOLKS    BACK    HOME 

the  chimney  around  it.  They're  goin'  to  cover  it  up 
with  red  tinsel  and  stuff  so's  to  look  like  a  bed  o' 
coals.  Be  easy  to  light  on,  too." 

"Laws!  I  don't  believe  any  o'  them  young  ones 
ever  seen  a  old-fashioned  fireplace.  I  s'pose  they 
won't  have  no  crane  nor  nothin'  to  hang  a  kittle  on." 

Abel  was  silent. 

"What's  got  into  you  here  lately?"  she  de 
manded.  "  I  don't  know  what  ails  you.  Set  there 
and  set  there  and  never  open  your  head.  Ain't  you 
well?" 

"  W'y,  yes,  I'm  all  right." 

"  Well,  you  don't  act  all  right.  Don't  you  go  to 
gittin'  sick  now,  not  till  after  Christmas,  anyways. 
I  wouldn't  miss  that  for  a  pretty.  Stand  up.  I  want 
to  try  this  here  Santy  Claus  suit  on  you.  It's  goin' 
to  look  awful  cute.  Go  easy,  now;  it's  only  basted. 
Now,  if  it  binds  you  in  under  the  armholes  you  must 
tell  me,"  she  said,  with  her  mouth  full  of  pins,  turn 
ing  him  around  and  pulling  him  this  way  and  that  as 
if  he  were  a  dummy.  "  You  needn't  to  mind  if  it's 
too  full  in  front.  I  got  to  'low  for  the  stuffin'." 

"Put  a  pillow  in?" 

"  W'y,  no,  child.  I  thought  some  o'  usin'  excel 
sior.  Don't  forget  to  remind  me  to  get  some  to 
morrow.  Hold  still.  I  ain't  done  marktin'  yet.  I'm 
goin'  to  trim  it  all  up  with  cotton  battin'  to  look 
like  white  fur.  I  was  thinkin'  o'  swan's-down,  but 


THE   MAKIN'S   OF   ABEL  HORN        209 

they's  no  use  goin'  to  that  expense.  I'll  make  you 
a  pointed  cap  and  sew  in  some  wickin'  for  hair,  and 
I  got  a  false-face  nose  with  whiskers  to  it  that  you 
can  tie  over  your  ears.  I  picked  it  out  down  to  Cox's 
to-day." 

Abel  put  it  on  to  please  her  and  cut  up  a  few 
monkey  shines,  but  his  heart  was  not  in  it.  He  sat 
around  a  while,  and  at  last  he  said  he  believed  he'd 
go  out  for  a  walk.  His  mother  said  she'd  sit  up  for 
him,  but  he  told  her  not  to. 

As  she  sewed  she  smiled.  She  was  as  pleased  to 
dress  him  up  as  if  he  were  a  doll,  and  she  a  girl 
again.  In  none  of  his  other  public  performances  had 
she  had  the  making  of  his  costume.  Though  he  was 
getting  bald  in  front,  he  was  her  "  baby "  yet,  a 
kind  of  plaything,  not  to  be  seriously  regarded.  She 
had  done  her  duty  by  the  four  girls  by  Mr.  Horn's 
first  wife,  but  Abel  had  been  her  pet.  She  could 
hardly  wait  till  the  girls  got  married  and  moved 
away  to  enjoy  life  with  her  own  son.  She  was  rather 
glad  he  had  not  grown  up  to  be  a  tall  man.  Little 
men  were  cuter.  Abel  was  always  so  cute. 

Other  people  besides  her  were  noticing  that  Abel 
was  very  quiet  here  lately.  Sometimes  he  would 
laugh  and  cut  up  as  usual,  and  then  again  they  said 
that  he  "  acted  as  if  somepin  was  kind  of  on  his 
mind."  They  wondered  what. 

Clarence  Bowersox  told  Brother  Littell  the  Satur- 


210  FOLKS    BACK    HOME 

day  morning  before  Christmas  (it  came  on  Wednes 
day  that  year):  "  Say,  whadda  you  s'pose?  " 

Mr.  Littell  was  feeling  frisky  that  morning  so  he 
made  answer:  "  I  can  s'pose  'most  anything  you  like, 
Clarence." 

"  Aw,  now,  I  ain't  foolin'.  I'm  in  earnest.  I  was 
comin'  along  in  front  o'  Burkhart's  last  night,  and  lo 
and  behold  you  there  was  Abel  and  Lide  a-holdin' 
a  close  confab  over  the  gate " 

"  He  always  takes  her  home  from  choir  meetin's. 
That  don't  signify  nothin'." 

"  Wait  till  I  tell  you.  We  was  walkin'  along 
slow •" 

"Who's  we?" 

"  W'y,  me  and  this  party  I  was  escortin'  home. 
And  jist  as  we " 

"  I  thought  you  and  Gertie  had  broke  it  off?  " 

"  Well,  so  we  did,  but  we  made  it  up  ag'in.  I  jist 
ignored  her,  let  on  I  didn't  know  she  was  alive,  but 
when  I  went  there  yisterday  morning  for  the  order 
she  come  out,  and  first  thing  you  know  we  was  good 
friends  ag'in,  same  as  ever,  and  I  ast  her  if  I  could 
call  for  her  in  the  evenin' — you  know  they're  trim- 
min'  up  the  Prispaterian  church,  her  an'  a  lot  more 
an' " 

"  What's  that  got  to  do  with  Lide  and  Abel?" 

"  Well,  I'd  tell  you  if  you'd  only  keep  still  long 
enough  to  let  me.  We  was  standin'  still,  kind  o', 


THE  MAKIN'S   OF  ABEL  HORN        211 

and  all  of  a  sudden  I  heard  Lide  speak  up:  '  I  jist 
can't  stand  it  this  way  no  longer!'  she  says,  her 
voice  all  trimbly  and  excited,  like  she  was  a-cryin'. 
Or,  '  It  jist  can't  go  on  this  way  no  longer.'  I  won't 
be  sure  which.  And  Abel  ketched  sight  of  us  and 
says:  'Ssh!  Here  comes  somebody,'  and  we  come 
on  past  and  didn't  hear  no  more.  But  I  seen  her 
wipe  her  eyes  or  leastways  she  put  her  handkerchief 
up.  Now  what  about  that?  " 

"  I  jox!  I  wonder!  "  said  Mr.  Littell,  half  whisper 
ing. 

"  Well,"  said  Clarence  grimly,  looking  to  one 
side.  "  There  you  are.  There's  somepin'  up  now,  sure 
as  you're  a  foot  high." 

Mr.  Littell  meant  as  much  as  anything  to  tell  this 
to  his  wife  when  he  went  home  to  dinner  that  noon, 
and  to  ask  her  what  she  thought  about  it.  But  it 
was  a  very  busy  morning  and  he  forgot.  That  night 
at  supper  he  knew  there  was  something  he  wanted 
to  say,  but  he  had  to  hurry  back  to  the  store  and 
he  never  did  think  of  it  until  the  cat  was  out  of  the 
bag  entirely.  Mrs.  Littell  told  him  then  she  was  just 
provoked  at  him,  so  she  was.  She  never  saw  such  a 
man. 

Ill 

I  don't  know  what  gets  into  the  days  before 
Christmas  to  make  them  drag  along  so,  but  even 


212  FOLKS    BACK    HOME 

the  longest  days  will  pass,  so  that  finally  seven-thirty 
Christmas  eve  did  come  around  and  the  Center 
Street  M.  E.  children,  and  a  lot  more  that  began  to 
go  to  Sunday  school  about  that  time,  found  them 
selves  packed  in  the  pews,  not  in  the  regular  places 
for  their  classes,  but  the  infant  class  in  the  front 
seats,  and  so  on  back  to  the  older  members  of  the 
congregation.  In  the  right-hand  Amen  corner  were 
the  children  from  the  "Barefoot "  church  up  in 
Stringtown  (Faith  Mission  was  the  right  name  for 
it).  The  shabby  little  young  ones  in  quaint,  bunchy, 
made-over  clothes  were  the  guests  of  Center  Street 
for  this  occasion.  Lide  Burkhart  had  them  in  charge, 
because  Clara  JoHantgen,  who  had  drilled  them,  had 
suddenly  taken  a  bad  sore  throat.  Little  Rosetta 
Smith,  one  of  old  Very  Dirty  Smith's  thirteen  or 
fourteen,  sat  next  to  Lide,  and  kept  looking  up  into 
her  face.  Lide  smiled  down  at  her.  She  was  a  pretty 
little  thing.  She  made  signs  she  wanted  to  whisper  to 
her.  Lide  bent  down.  She  put  her  arms  around 
Lide's  neck. 

"  Teacher,"  she  whispered.  "  Are  they  any  Santy 
Claus?  " 

"  Why,  yes,"  answered  Lide.  "  You  just  wait  and 
you'll  see  him." 

"  Aw,  now,  you're  kiddin'." 

"  Honest,"  said  Lide.  "  Cross  my  heart."  And  she 
did. 


THE   MAKIN'S   OF   ABEL  HORN       213 

The  child  gave  a  happy  sigh.  It  was  all  right  if 
teacher  crossed  her  heart. 

The  left-hand  Amen  corner  was  where  the  choir 
sat.  Right  by  them  was  the  door  that  led  down 
stairs  to  the  pastor's  study.  A  row  of  screens  masked 
the  approach  from  the  study  to  the  back  of  the 
scenic  chimney  down  which  Santa  Claus  was  to 
climb.  Arching  above  it  on  the  wall,  tacked  on 
the  mackerel  sky  that  showed  between  the  pillars 
of  the  marble  temple  painted  on  the  plaster,  was 
the  motto:  "GLORY  TO  GOD  IN  THE  HIGH 
EST,"  made  of  cedar.  I  need  not  tell  you  that 
the  N  and  the  S  were  'hind  side  before.  They 
always  are. 

But  the  main  thing  was  the  Christmas  tree,  twin 
kling  and  glittering  with  its  candles  and  fruitage  of 
gilded  glass.  Yards  and  yards  of  strung  popcorn 
looped  from  branch  to  branch  whereon  hung  hun 
dreds  of  red  mosquito  netting  bags  of  candy.  The 
air  was  spicy  with  oranges,  and  though  the  children 
from  the  Barefoot  church  swallowed  and  swallowed, 
their  chins  were  wet  most  of  the  time,  the  smell  of 
candy  and  oranges  was  so  strong. 

Everybody  was  on  the  broad  grin  and  the  chil 
dren  jumped  and  fidgeted  and  whispered,  and  little 
Selma  Morgenroth,  who  had  never  been  to  Sunday 
school  in  her  life  until  the  week  before,  got  so  ex 
cited  when  she  saw  another  little  girl  she  knew  that 


214  FOLKS    BACK    HOME 

she  cried:  "  O  Maggie!  Oo-hoo!  "  and  fluttered  her 
hand  at  her. 

The  nervous  tension  was  very  near  the  breaking 
point  when  Mr.  Perkypile,  the  superintendent,  came 
forward  and  stood  by  the  Christmas  tree  to  say: 
"  The  school  will  now  come  to  order.  We  will  open 
the  exercises  by  singing  number  thirty-seven.  Num 
ber  thirty-seven.  Now,  children,  you  all  know  this, 
and  I  want  you  to  sing  out  now.  Don't  be  afraid 
to  let  the  people  hear  how  nice  you  can  sing."  Num 
ber  thirty-seven  was  "  Merry,  Merry  Christmas 
Bells/'  and  in  their  efforts  to  sing  out  the  children 
scowled  and  twisted  their  jaws,  and  almost  tore  the 
lining  out  of  their  throats.  If  you  had  not  known 
they  were  singing  you  would  have  thought  they 
were  being  skinned  alive,  by  the  sound  of  it. 

Brother  Longenecker  offered  prayer,  which  he 
had  the  grace  to  make  a  short  one,  and  then  he 
talked  about  the  first  Christmas  that  ever  was. 

How  beautiful  that  story  is!  When  our  first  par 
ents  peered  through  the  guarded  gateway  of  the 
Eden  they  had  lost  forever,  how  sadly  lovely  must 
have  seemed  that  glowing  sward,  those  waving 
branches  in  whose  pleasant  shade  they  nevermore 
might  walk  again.  Something  of  their  longing  makes 
our  hearts  ache  as  we  turn  backward  for  a  moment 
to  the  shepherds  abiding  in  the  field  keeping  watch 
over  their  flock  by  night.  The  soft  Judean  heaven 


THE  MAKIN'S  OF  ABEL  HORN  215 
bends  above  them,  vast,  silent,  patterned  with  far- 
off  shining  stars.  On  the  dim  sky  line  rise  formless 
blots  of  shadow,  hills  and  clumps  of  trees  by  day. 
The  dried  grass  whispers  in  the  gentle  wind.  A 
sheep  bell  tinkles  softly.  A  lambkin's  fluttering  cry 
arises  and  is  hushed.  A  twig  snaps  loudly  in  the 
stillness. 

O  shepherds,  drowse  not!  This  is  the  Holy  Night 
of  all  that  were  and  shall  be.  This  is  the  solemn 
moment  round  which,  as  round  the  polestar,  circles 
the  vast  perimeter  of  all  time.  The  world  awaits  it, 
breathless,  hushed. 

On  the  instant  the  dark  shadows  on  the  horizon's 
rim  leap  into  their  day's  likeness  in  a  flood  of  light. 
The  dazzled  shepherds  shade  their  eyes.  A  radiant 
stranger  stands  before  them,  his  wings  a-quiver  with 
arrested  flight.  "  Fear  not,"  he  says,  "  for,  behold, 
I  bring  you  good  tidings  of  great  joy  which  shall  be 
to  all  people.  For  unto  you  is  born  this  day  in  the 
city  of  David  a  Saviour,  which  is  Christ  the  Lord. 
And  this  shall  be  a  sign  unto  you:  ye  shall  find  the 
babe  wrapped  in  swaddling  clothes,  lying  in  a  man- 
ger." 

There  is  a  moment  of  silence.  The  shepherds  hear 
the  blood  thudding  in  their  ears,  and  then  the 
heavens  flash  with  rosy  light.  The  sky  is  thronged 
with  rank  on  rank  of  quiring  angels  singing,  "  Glory 
to  God  in  the  highest  and  on  earth  peace,  good  will 


216  FOLKS    BACK    HOME 

toward  men."  Rank  on  rank  they  swim  in  the  still 
air,  each  glistening  chanter  bearing  his  part,  treble 
and  counter,  tenor  and  bass,  sweeter  their  voices,  ah, 
sweeter  far  than  any  cathedral  choir!  The  floating 
skeins  of  melody  weave  in  and  out  in  heavenly  po 
lyphony,  twining  and  intertwining  till  they  knot  at 
last  in  sevenfold  amen.  The  light  fades  slowly  as 
the  music  dies.  The  shadows  on  the  sky  line  creep 
nearer  and  nearer  till  once  more  only  the  pale  stars 
twinkle  overhead.  The  shepherds  hearken,  but  they 
hear  only  the  tall  grasses  whispering  in  the  night 
wind,  only  the  tinkling  of  the  sheep's  bell,  only  the 
lambkin's  fluttering  cry  that  rises  and  is  hushed 
again.  The  shepherds  sigh  and  we  sigh  with  them. 
So  soon  those  angel  visitors  are  gone  and  gone  from 
earth  forever!  It  is  in  vain  we  stretch  our  hands  be 
seeching: 

Angels,  sing  on,  your  faithful  watches  keeping, 
Sing  us  sweet  fragments  of  the  songs  above. 

Ah,  happy  shepherds!  Would  that  we,  too,  might 
now  go  even  unto  Bethlehem  and  see  this  thing 
which  is  come  to  pass!  But  our  Eden  is  closed  to 
us.  From  among  the  thorns  and  thistles  we  peer 
through  the  guarded  gateway  of  our  childhood's 
faith  and  mark  how  lovely  are  the  waving  branches 
in  whose  pleasant  shade  we  nevermore  may  walk 
again. 


•     THE  MAKIN'S   OF   ABEL  HORN       217 

Well,  that  wasn't  the  way  Brother  Longenecker 
told  it.  He  rocked  back  and  forth  on  heels  and  toes, 
his  finger  tips  joined  together  and  a  smile's  corpse 
coming  and  going  on  his  mouth.  "  Dear  children," 
said  he,  "  who  can  tell  me  what  is  this  day  we  cele 
brate?  " 

"  Christmas!  "  They  all  knew  that. 

"  Christmas.  Yes,  it  is  Christmas.  And  why  is  it 
the  gladdest  and  happiest  day  of  all  the  year?  " 

A  confused  babble  out  of  which  one  might  pick 
the  shriek  of,  "  'Cause  we  get  Christmas  gif's." 

"  Yes.  We  get  Christmas  gifts  and  we  give  Christ 
mas  gifts.  And  why  do  we  give  Christmas  gifts?  In 
memory  of  the  greatest  Christmas  gift  the  world  has 
ever  had.  Now  what  is  the  greatest  Christmas  gift 
in  all  the  world?" 

Silence  at  first  and  then  one  little  boy  pipes  up: 
"A  pair  o'  skates!" 

In  the  laughter  that  followed  Brother  Longenecker 
could  be  seen  rather  than  heard  to  say:  "  No,  no." 
One  little  girl  stuck  up  her  hand  and  snapped  her 
fingers  till  she  got  the  floor,  primly  squalling: 
"  Jesus  Christ  was  born  on  Christmas  Day,"  switch 
ing  the  tail  of  her  dress  to  one  side  as  she  bounced 
down  again. 

That  was  the  way  that  Brother  Longenecker  told 
the  Bethlehem  story. 

After  he  got  through,  Miss  McGoldrick  read  off 


2i8  FOLKS    BACK   HOME 

a  whole  lot  of  poetry  that  she  made  up  herself  and 
little  Curg  Emerson  spoke  a  piece  about: 

Twas  the  night  before  Christmas,  and  all  through  the  house 
Not  a  creature  was  stirring — not  even  a  mouse. 

Maybe  you  have  heard  it.  It  is  a  nice  piece,  but 
poor  little  Lycurgus  was  so  scared  he  didn't  know 
what  to  do  with  himself  and  he  completely  forgot 
all  the  gestures  his  ma  had  taken  such  pains  to  teach 
him.  He  kept  opening  and  shutting  his  hands  and 
trying  to  swallow  a  terrible  lump  in  his  throat. 

I  can't  begin  to  tell  you  all  the  things  that  they 
put  in  to  prolong  the  agony  and  keep  the  children 
waiting.  But  finally  the  screens  that  masked  the  way 
from  the  study  began  to  wabble  and  then  the  chim 
ney  shook  and  there!  down  bounced  Santa  Claus 
on  the  fiery  sofa  and  out  on  the  floor,  the  funniest 
little,  fat,  red-nosed  man  that  ever  was,  with  white 
whiskers  and  a  red  suit  all  trimmed  with  white  fur. 

A  shrill  scream  of  joyous  welcome  greeted  him, 
and  even  the  solemn-faced  bunchy  little  "  Barefeet " 
with  the  knit  hoods  clapped  their  skinny  hands.  It 
made  Lide  catch  her  breath  to  see  them.  In  an 
excess  of  motherly  feeling  she  hugged  little  Rosetta 
to  her.  The  child  looked  up  smiling.  It  was  all  true 
about  old  Santy,  "  no  kiddinV  But  when  he  came 
over  to  where  they  were,  to  hand  them  each  the  little 
bag  of  candy  and  the  orange,  they  shrank  from  him. 


THE  MAKIN'S   OF  ABEL  HORN       219 

It  is  not  good  to  come  too  close  to  supernatural 
beings.  They  feared  the  Greeks  even  bearing  gifts. 
But  only  for  a  moment.  And  then  what  a  crunching 
of  candies  and  ripping  open  of  oranges!  For  that 
matter,  the  whole  church  was  soon  a  shambles  of 
sweets,  and  when  the  sexton  came  to  clean  up  he 
had  no  words  to  express  his  detestation  and  hor 
ror  of  the  whole  wretched  business. 

"Jist  look  at  that  there  carpet!"  he  quivered. 
"Look  at  it!  Now,  ain't  that — "  But  he  could  say 
no  more. 

Little  Rosetta  sucked  her  candy  stingily,  but 
saved  her  orange,  she  told  Lide,  for  her  sick  ma. 
She  watched  Santa  hopping  around  in  comic  haste, 
her  eyes  round  with  wonder.  Suddenly  she  dropped 
her  orange  and  clutched  the  top  of  the  partition  that 
masked  the  front  pew  in  which  she  sat.  She  stood 
up  and  screamed.  But  the  hubbub  was  so  loud  that 
her  shrill  voice  was  unheard. 

"Oh,  look  at  Santy!"  she  cried.  "Oh,  look  at 
him!  Looky!  looky!  " 

Everybody  else  had  said  that  hours  before.  In 
a  transport  of  rage  at  being  ignored  the  child 
began  slapping  her  neighbors  and  jumping  up  and 
down. 

"  Here,  here!  "  corrected  Lide.  "  Behave  yourself, 
little  girl." 

"  Look  at  Santy!  look  at  Santy!  "  she  sobbed,  and 


220  FOLKS    BACK    HOME 

flung  herself  into  Lide's  arms  frantically.  "  Teacher, 
teacher,  look  at  Santy!" 

Lide  gave  a  look  and  then,  placing  her  hands  on 
the  partition,  vaulted  over  it  as  she  had  not  done 
since  she  was  a  girl.  She  rushed  into  the  altar  tear 
ing  off  her  coat  as  she  ran. 

A  pale  blaze  flickered  on  the  cotton  trimming  of 
Abel's  suit. 

It  spread  like  fire  in  powder.  He  was  all  aflame 
in  an  instant.  He  tore  wildly  at  his  garments.  The 
children  laughed  to  see  his  antics,  and  then  their 
laugh  died  in  horror  in  their  throats,  and  they  rose 
to  their  feet  gasping. 

Lide  was  fighting  with  the  wild  creature  trying  to 
muffle  him  in  her  coat,  while  he  threw  her  away 
from  him  writhing  in  agony. 

A  big  hobbledehoy  sitting  next  to  Clarence 
started  up  bawling,  "  Fi — ! "  But  Clarence  clapped 
his  hand  over  his  mouth,  snarling,  "  Shut  up,  you 
damn  fool!  Do  you  want  everybody  tromped  to 
death?  Set  down  and  keep  quiet,  or  I'll  knock  your 
head  off." 

"  Keep  your  seats,  everybody!  "  cried  Mr.  Longe- 
necker.  "  There  is  no  danger!  " 

But  the  word  "  danger  "  frightened  them  and  with 
one  impulse  the  packed  pews  strove  to  empty  them 
selves  at  once.  The  men  clambered  over  the  seats 
and  trod  on  shrieking  women  and  children.  Clarence 


THE   MAKIN'S   OF   ABEL  HORN       221 

leaped  into  the  aisle  and  bellowed,  "  Ladies  first! 
Git  back  there,  you!  Easy,  now.  No  crowdin'! 
Ladies  first!" 

Henry  Myrice  came  bursting  down  the  aisle  yell 
ing:  "  Lemme  out!  lemme  out!"  Bang!  went  Clar 
ence's  fist  on  Henry's  jaw.  The  man  toppled  over 
against  a  pew. 

"  What's  the  matter  with  you?  "  he  whimpered. 

"Ladies  first!"  shouted  Clarence.  "Next  man 
gits  it  jist  the  same.  Ladies  first!" 

Over  in  the  other  aisle  Lester  Pettitt  caught  up 
the  word.  "  Ladies  first!  "  he  kept  crying,  and  pres 
ently  the  men  and  boys  recovered  their  senses  and 
waited  their  turn  to  get  out. 

Dr.  Avery,  who  had  sung  a  solo  that  night  and 
was  near  the  altar,  ran  to  Lide's  assistance. 

"  Don't  try  to  take  his  things  off  here,"  he  said 
to  her.  "  Let's  get  him  out.  Here,  somebody  take 
a  hold."  But  nobody  heeded.  The  librarian  of  the 
Sunday  school  could  think  of  nothing  more  instant 
than  blowing  out  the  candles  on  the  Christmas  tree 
and  went  hopping  around  puffing  at  them.  Mr. 
Perkypile  stood  perfectly  still,  fear-mazed.  Lide 
gave  one  look  around,  then  stooping  she  lifted  the 
shoulders  of  the  groaning  man  and  kissed  him  on 
the  mouth. 

"  Come  on,  doctor,"  she  said,  as  she  rose  stag 
gering  with  her  burden.  "  You  take  his  feet.  I  can 


222  FOLKS    BACK    HOME 

manage.  Over  to  my  house.  We  live  across  the 
street." 

When  Mrs.  Horn  came  out  of  her  faint  they  led 
her  down  into  the  study.  She  stopped  her  little  cries 
of  "Oh,  oh,  oh!"  to  look  through  the  open  door 
at  the  crowd  on  Burkhart's  veranda.  With  swift 
accession  of  strength  she  ran  thither. 

When  she  entered  the  room,  Dr.  Avery  looked 
up  from  the  work  of  stripping  the  charred  costume 
from  the  sufferer.  "  Don't  let  anybody  in,"  he  said 
imperiously. 

"  I'm  his  mother,"  cried  Mrs.  Horn.  "  I  guess  I'll 
come  in  if  I  want  to.  O  my  boy!  O  Abel,  Abel, 
you'll  be  all  scarred  up  if  you  ever  do  get  well!  O 
dear!  O  dear!  Why  didn't  you  take  him  home? 
Home's  the  best  place.  Yes,  home's  the  best  place 
for  my  poor,  poor  boy!  " 

"  Madam,  you'll  have  to  keep  quiet  or  I  can't 
have  you  in  here,"  said  Dr.  Avery. 

"She's  in  here!"  screamed  Mrs.  Horn.  "Pretty 
thing  if  I  can't  be  with  my  own  boy.  What  right  has 
she  got  here?  I  should  think  if  she  had  any  decency 
about  her " 

"  I  have  every  right  in  the  world  here,"  said  Lide 
quietly,  "  I  am  his  wife.  Just  a  second,  doctor,"  and 
she  went  on  deftly  scissoring  away  the  smoldering 
fabric. 

His  wife!  Abel  looked  at  his  mother  and  nodded 


THE   MAKIN'S   OF   ABEL  HORN       223 

painfully.  She  gave  a  low  cry  and  tottered  out  of 
the  room. 

It  never  rains  but  it  pours  in  Minuca  Center,  and 
the  excitement  over  the  panic  in  the  church  was 
hardly  greater  than  the  discovery  that  Abel  Horn 
and  Lide  Burkhart  had  been  married  for  more  than 
two  years,  and  had  kept  it  a  secret. 

"  I  wouldn't  'a'  put  it  apast  Abel  Horn  to  do  sech 
a  fool  trick,"  said  Sarepta  Downey,  talking  it  over 
with  Lester  Pettitt  and  his  wife,  "but  la  me!  I  did 
think  Lide  had  more  sense.  Now  if  it  was  me  gittin' 
married  I'd  want  everybody  to  know  it." 

Mr.  Pettitt  kept  a  straight  face. 

"  A  man's  natcherly  romantic,  anyhow,"  continued 
the  little  old  maid,  "  and  then  his  ma  bein'  so  set 
on  him  stayin'  single  while  she  lived.  But  mercy! 
It's  different  with  a  woman.  She's  got  to " 

Mrs.  Pettitt  frowned  and  shook  her  head,  giving 
it  a  little  jerk  toward  Janey,  who  was  listening 
eagerly.  "  What's  Miz  Horn  goin'  to  do  about  it?  " 
she  asked  by  way  of  diversion.  "  I  mean  old  Miz 
Horn.  Sounds  funny  to  call  her  '  old  Miz  Horn,' 
don't  it?  " 

"  Oh,  she  says  he's  made  his  bed  and  he's  got 
to  lay  in  it.  She  found  out  he  was  goin'  to  git  well, 
though,  before  she  said  it.  Say.  Do  you  know,  they 
say  he  won't  be  marked  up  hardly  a  bit  when  his 


224  FOLKS    BACK   HOME 

hair  and  eyebrows  grows  out?  Yes,  sir,  she's  done 
with  him,  his  ma  is.  So  she  says.  Not  a  cent  will  she 
give  him.  Ain't  that  green,  though?  " 

"  Abel'll  come  out  top  o'  the  heap,"  said  Lester. 
"  I'll  bet  on  Abel." 

So  he  did.  The  event  was,  as  everybody  said,  "  the 
makin's  "  of  him.  About  then  folks  began  to  talk  of 
a  trolley  road.  Abel  undertook  to  secure  the  prop 
erty  owners'  consent  and  engineer  the  franchise. 
If  he  never  again  appeared  in  any  entertainment  it 
was  because  he  was  too  busy  bullyragging  and 
"  blanneying  "  people  into  giving  him  rights  of  way 
for  nothing  or  the  next  thing  to  it.  He  is  something 
of  a  magnate  in  that  line  of  business  and  making 
money  hand  over  fist. 

His  mother?  Oh,  she's  quarreled  with  Abel  and 
Lide  a  dozen  times  since  then.  There  was  a  grand 
flare-up  when  they  wouldn't  name  the  baby  Abelina 
Jerusha.  Yes,  it's  a  girl;  born  the  latter  part  of  the 
next  April  after.  Sweet  little  thing,  too. 


THE  LOVE  STORY  OF  ROBERT  PROUTY 


IT  was  hard  that  Bob  Prouty  should  have  been 
dismissed  just  at  the  beginning  of  the  dull  sea 
son,  when  it  was  useless  to  look  for  employ 
in  his  line;  but  a  calamity  that  brought  him  home 
from  New  York  for  a  good  long  visit,  the  first  in 
years,  was  not  one  to  grieve  over  very  much. 

The  difficult  question:  "  What  do  you  do  with  all 
your  money?  "  had  been  answered  as  well  as  it  ever 
can  be,  the  question  being  from  the  standpoint  of 
Minuca  Center,  the  answer  from  the  standpoint  of 
New  York.  Followed  the  next  important  query — 
did  Bob  "  go "  with  anybody  there?  Mrs.  Prouty 
concluded  that  it  must  be  a  very  queer  place  indeed 
if  it  was  as  hard  there  for  a  young  man  to  get 
acquainted  with  nice  girls  as  Bob  made  out  it  was. 

"  Don't  you  go  to  church,  ever?  "  she  asked. 

"  Yes,  sometimes.  No,  not  regularly  to  any  one 
place.  Well,  to  Trinity  as  often  as  anywhere.  They 
had  good  singing  there." 

"  Well,  now,  I  tell  you  what  you  do,"  advised 

225 


226  FOLKS    BACK    HOME 

Mrs.  Prouty.  "  When  you  go  back  in  the  fall  you 
go  call  on  the  pastor — what's  his  name?" 

"The  rector  of  Trinity?  Dr.  Dix." 

"  Why,  is  he  there  yet?  "  interjected  Mr.  Prouty. 
"  He  is,  eh?  They  must  like  his  preaching  pretty 
well." 

"  You  go  call  on  this  Mr.  Dix,  and  tell  him  you 
attend  his  church,  and  then  you  take  in  their  so 
ciables  and  oyster  suppers  and  whatever  doings  they 
have  in  the  parlors  of  the  church  in  the  long  win 
ter  evenings.  If  I  was  you,  I'd  go  to  the  young 
people's  meetings,  and  join  the  choir.  Why,  you'd 
be  acquainted  with  lots  of  nice  girls  in  no  time, 
scarcely." 

As  Bob  dramatized  these  suggestions,  they 
seemed  pathetically  comic.  His  mother  divined  his 
smile  rather  than  saw  it. 

11  Oh,  whatever  church  you  like,"  she  made  haste 
to  add.  "  There's  plenty  of  nice  girls  in  all  of  them. 
I  just  worry  and  worry  about  you,  away  off  there 
with  nobody  to  look  after  you  and  see  that  your 
socks  aren't  one  mass  of  holes.  You  ought  to  get 
married.  It  would  be  the  making  of  you,  if  you 
could  get  the  right  kind  of  a  wife.  And  you  could, 
too — no  bad  habits,  and  strong  and  healthy  and  fine 
looking — oh,  you  needn't  say  'Huh!'  for  you  are; 
I  don't  care  if  you  are  my  boy.  You  could  take  your 
pick  of  them." 


LOVE    STORY    OF    ROBERT    PROUTY     227 

"  Yes,  I  s'pose,"  scoffed  Bob.  "  Just  walk  up  and 
say,  '  I  choose  you,'  and  she'd  come  right  along." 

"  Oh,  now,  you  know  what  I  mean.  It  ain't  right 
for  you  to  stay  single,  and  you  going  on  twenty- 
seven." 

"Yes,"  jeered  Bob;  "I'd  look  well  with  a  wife 
right  now,  wouldn't  I?" 

"  O  fiddle!  "  replied  his  father.  "  You'll  find  some 
thing  as  good  as  you  had,  as  soon  as  business  opens 
up  again  in  the  fall.  On  the  wages  you  were  getting 
you  could  easy  keep  yourself  and  a  wife,  and  lay 
up  money.  See  here!" 

And  with  a  pencil  and  the  back  of  an  envelope, 
Mr.  Prouty  demonstrated  again  the  ancient  para 
dox  that  what  will  just  about  do  for  one  is  an  ample 
competence  for  two. 

II 

The  shame  of  being  idle  and  living  off  his  father 
for  a  whole  summer  Bob  Prouty  found  more  tol 
erable  than  he  had  imagined.  It  was  not  such  a  slow 
little  town,  after  all.  There  were  the  annual  lawn 
fetes  of  the  various  churches,  each  of  which  was  at 
tended  by  the  members  of  the  other  churches  with 
an  evangelical  charity  beautiful  to  behold.  There 
were  all  kinds  of  picnics,  whereat  assisted  many 
young  women  who  remembered  him  much  better 
than  he  remembered  them.  Some  of  these  young 


228  FOLKS    BACK    HOME 

women  were  pretty.  Marie  Hutchins  was  an  un 
doubted  beauty,  and  none  of  them  was  as  provincial 
and  countrified  as  he  had  feared. 

Miss  Hutchins'  beauty  had  dazzled  him  at  first, 
but  not  for  long.  Beyond  the  limit  of  an  extrava 
gant  compliment  from  him,  a  flashing  of  her  big, 
blue  eyes,  with  "  Oh,  yes,  you  say  that  to  every 
body/'  and  his  succeeding  protest,  he  found  it  diffi 
cult  to  extend  a  conversation.  Jennie  Lineacre  was 
beautiful,  too,  in  a  graver,  more  statuesque  way;  but 
she  was  so  patently  affected  that  her  hour  was  brief. 
Grace  Hoover  was  the  jolliest  little  thing,  "  the  life 
of  the  party,"  as  they  say,  but  to  be  always  on  the 
lookout  for  a  witticism  and  to  be  obliged  to  cap 
it  with  another  was  too  great  a  strain. 

That  was  the  worst  of  most  of  them,  Bob  found 
— they  thought  they  had  to  exert  themselves  to  en 
tertain.  Perhaps  it  was  because  she  wasn't  eternally 
clacking  away  at  him  that  he  often  found  himself  in 
the  company  of  Alice  La  Fetra.  He  had  known  Alice 
since  he  was  a  boy,  for  his  mother  and  hers  were 
old  friends.  They  swapped  patterns  and  recipes,  and 
were  always  running  back  and  forth.  Bob  and  Alice 
had  never  known  much  of  each  other,  for  she  was 
younger  than  he,  and  a  girl.  The  last  time  he  was 
at  home  she  was  gangling  and  awkward.  Since  then 
she  had  improved,  and  was  now  not  bad  looking, 
though  he  would  not  call  her  beautiful.  But,  he  ad- 


LOVE   STORY    OF   ROBERT   PROUTY     229 

mitted  to  himself,  he  had  very  seldom  seen  a  woman 
that  he  would  call  really  beautiful.  What  was  most 
in  Alice's  favor  was  that  she  didn't  make  him  tired. 
What  she  said  was  sensible  and  well  expressed;  but 
if  she  didn't  say  anything,  she  was  company,  just  the 
same.  She  was  going  to  teach  a  kindergarten  in  the 
fall,  having  finished  her  preparatory  studies.  She 
was  musical,  though  not  a  wonderful  player  or 
singer.  She  was  a  musician  rather  than  a  performer. 
There  is  a  difference. 

Bob's  mother  delighted  to  pretend  that  he  was  her 
little  boy  still.  It  saved  her  so  many  steps  for  him  to 
"  run  over  to  Mrs.  La  Fetra's  "  and  do  this,  that, 
and  the  other  errand.  Mollie  and  Sue  La  Fetra  were 
away  for  the  summer,  and  Alice  was  the  only  one 
that  Mrs.  La  Fetra  had  to  send  on  errands  to  Mrs. 
Prouty's.  Both  families  belonged  to  the  same  Meth 
odist  church,  and,  naturally  enough,  Alice  and  Bob 
walked  home  together  on  Sunday  mornings  with 
their  parents.  It  was  the  custom  there  for  the  young 
people  to  attend  other  churches  in  the  evening;  and 
if  Bob  asked  Alice  to  go  with  him,  it  was  because 
it  was  less  trouble  to  do  that  than  to  hunt  up  an 
other  girl.  Then  there  were  these  picnics  and  lawn 
fetes,  and  walks  to  the  Sulphur  Spring.  He  liked 
to  row,  but  it  was  a  bore  to  go  alone,  so  he  took 
Alice,  because  she  didn't  squeal  and  wiggle  about 
and  dabble  her  hands  in  the  water. 


23o  FOLKS    BACK    HOME 

Most  of  Bob's  schoolmates  had  gone  away  from 
Minuca  Center.  Those  who  were  left,  while  good- 
hearted  and  all  that,  were  rather  limited  in  their 
ideas.  Out  of  sheer  inability  to  pass  the  time  in  any 
other  satisfactory  way,  he  got  into  the  habit  of  go 
ing  over  to  the  La  Fetras  in  the  evening,  instead 
of  downtown. 

When  Frank  Woodmansee  told  Bob  that  Harry 
Allgire  had  asked  if  he  was  "  going  with  "  Alice  La 
Fetra,  it  first  angered  and  then  amused  him.  He 
told  his  mother  about  it. 

"Harry  Allgire?  Isn't  he  the  fellow  that's  'going 
with'  that  De  Wees  girl?" 

"  Going  with  her?  Why,  it's  the  worst  case  you 
ever  saw.  She  walks  down  to  meet  him  coming  home 
to  dinner,  and  walks  back  with  him  after.  We  meet 
them  every  place,  Alice  and  I." 

"  Oh,  well,  I  wouldn't  pay  any  attention  to  it,  if 
I  was  you,"  said  Mrs.  Prouty.  "  Alice  is  a  nice 
enough  girl,  but " 

"  Why,  that's  just  it.  Of  course  she's  nice,  and  I 
like  her  immensely,  but  as  far  as  '  going  with  '  her 
is  concerned,  why,  I  never  thought  of  such  a  thing. 
And  I  don't  suppose  she  has,  either." 

"  No,  I  reckon  not,"  said  Mrs.  Prouty,  but  she 
did  not  seem  to  be  so  positive  about  it  as  her  son. 
"  Her  mother  was  saying — I  don't  know  as  I  ought 
to  tell  you." 


LOVE   STORY   OF    ROBERT    PROUTY     231 

"  Oh,  go  on,  tell  me.  What  did  she  say?  " 

"  Well,  come  to  think,  I  don't  know  as  I  can  tell 
just  in  so  many  words;  but  the  amount  of  it  was  that 
she  thought  Alice  thought  a  good  deal  of  you."  She 
eyed  him  sharply  to  see  how  he  took  it.  He  looked 
very  grave.  Then  she  added:  "  She  said  Alice  said 
there  was  something  to  what  you  had  to  say.  I  think 
myself  she  thinks  you're  just  about  right." 

Bob  was  troubled  in  his  mind.  He  hadn't  sup 
posed  that  Alice  would  attach  any  more  importance 
to  their  friendship  than  he  had.  It  was  a  funny  thing 
if  a  fellow  couldn't  be  civil  to  a  girl  without  her 
going  and  falling  in  love  with  him.  It  just  spoiled 
everything.  He  was  in  no  position  to  pay  serious 
attentions  to  any  woman.  He  was  not  employed,  and 
Lord  knew  when  he  would  be.  It  was  no  easy  thing 
to  get  a  place  as  good  as  the  one  that  he  had  given 
up  because  he  would  not  submit  to  be  talked  to 
as  Maxwell  had  talked  to  him.  Even  so,  the  salary 
was  none  too  much  for  one,  let  alone  two,  he  didn't 
care  how  his  father  figured. 

Anyhow,  he  meant  to  look  around  a  little  before 
settling  on  a  final  choice.  On  the  train  coming 
West  with  him  there  was  a  girl.  She  was  with 
her  father,  so  he  had  not —  But  he  had  caught 
her  looking  at  him  once.  Now,  a  girl  like  that,  for 
instance! 

Alice  was  nice,  no  doubt  about  that.  He  would 


232  FOLKS    BACK    HOME 

like  to  take  her  and  show  her  around  New  York. 
She  would  appreciate  it  all,  because  she  had  such 
sensible  ideas.  He'd  like  to  take  her  to  the  Metro 
politan  Opera  House.  It  was  something  pathetic  to 
think  that  a  girl  with  her  taste  in  music,  and  her 
understanding  of  it,  had  never  even  heard  "  Faust." 
It  would  be  a  pleasure  to  watch  her  pleasure.  And 
he  would  be  proud  to  be  seen  with  her,  for,  though 
she  wasn't  exactly  a  beauty,  she  looked  about  as 
well  as  any  girl  he  was  acquainted  with.  She  was 
distinguished  in  a  way,  and  her  face  was  so  express 
ive.  She  was  stylish,  too,  and  what  she  wore  was 
in  good  taste.  A  man  might  do  worse  than  marry 
her.  In  fact,  the  fellow  that  got  her  would  be  dis 
tinctly  lucky;  but  it  was  out  of  the  question  for  Bob 
to  think  of  that,  because  he  didn't  love  her. 

He  thought  a  great  deal  of  her,  it  was  true.  She 
was  such  good  company.  She  didn't  make  him  tired, 
as  other  girls  did.  But  if  she  was  going  to  fall  in 
love  with  him,  why — he  wished  he  hadn't  said  he 
would  be  over  that  evening.  But  he  had  said  so, 
and  she  would  be  disappointed  if  he  didn't  call. 

"  Ah,  Bob,  going  courting?  "  gayly  inquired  his 
father  as  his  son  came  out  on  the  veranda  after  sup 
per.  "  I  see  you're  all  togged  out." 

"  No,  indeed,"  replied  Mr.  Robert  Prouty  gravely, 
determined  to  put  an  end  to  such  nonsense.  "  No, 
just  making  a  call." 


LOVE    STORY    OF    ROBERT    PROUTY     233 

"Well,  give  her  my  love/'  returned  his  father 
with  ready  wit.  "  And  say !  Tell  La  Fetra  I  can 
beat  him  a  game  of  cribbage  if  he'll  come  over." 
Mr.  Prouty  turned  to  confront  his  wife's  disapprov 
ing  visage.  "Why,  what's  wrong  now?"  he  asked 
guiltily  as  soon  as  Bob  was  out  of  earshot. 

"Henry  Prouty!  For  a  man  of  your  age,  I  do 
think  you  have  as  little  judgment  as  anybody  I  ever 
saw — tow-row-rowing  at  the  boy  that  way,  so  all  the 
neighbors  can  hear  you!" 

"Well,  what  of  it?" 

"  Good  land!  Can't  you  see?  " 

"  Why,  do  you  think — "  Mr.  Prouty  finished  his 
question  by  inclining  his  head  toward  the  La  Fetra 
residence. 

"  Think?  I  don't  think  anything  about  it." 


Ill 

Bob  and  Alice  were  talking,  with  the  gate  between 
them,  when  Mr.  and  Mrs.  La  Fetra  returned  from 
spending  the  evening  at  the  Proutys'. 

"  Well,  sir,  I  beat  that  dad  of  yours  four  straight 
games  out  of  five.  He  can't  play  cribbage  a  little 
bit,"  was  Mr.  La  Fetra's  loud  boast,  synchronous 
with  his  wife's  reproof  of  Alice  for  standing  out  in 
the  night  air  with  nothing  around  her. 

Bob  and  Alice  both  essayed  at  once  to  unlatch  the 


234  FOLKS    BACK    HOME 

gate.  Her  fingers  brushed  the  back  of  his  hand,  and 
lingered  the  fraction  of  a  second  longer  than  in- 
stantaneity.  The  nerves  there,  commonly  so  dull, 
leaped  into  alert  consciousness.  Fire  and  frost 
thrilled  his  back,  a  sensation  strange  but  delightful. 

It  puzzled  him,  for  nothing  could  be  surer  than 
that  he  was  not  in  love  with  Alice  La  Fetra.  He 
knew  what  love  was,  both  by  reading  and  by  ob 
servation.  He  had  once  roomed  with  a  fellow  named 
Kirke,  who  "  had  it  bad  "  for  the  fifth  time,  and  who 
was  destined  to  have  it  three  times  more  before  he 
married  the  woman  who  afterwards  divorced  him. 
The  fellow,  who  had  once  been  jolly,  moped  and 
sighed  and  shook  his  head.  He  sat  for  hours  with 
his  elbow  on  the  table  and  his  cheek  in  his  hand,  so 
that  his  lips  were  all  pushed  out  of  shape.  He  used  to 
sing  "  Call  Me  Thine  Own,"  in  a  voice  like  a  gang- 
saw  going  through  a  knot.  Nothing  like  that  ailed 
Bob;  hence  he  was  not  in  love. 

He  decided  that  the  thrill  he  had  experienced  was 
due  to  nervous  apprehension  that  it  was  a  sign  that 
she  loved  him.  If  she  did,  why,  then,  he  ought  in 
honor  to  marry  her.  He  would  keep  it  from  her  that 
he  did  not  love  her,  and  never  let  her  find  it  out. 
Supposing,  though,  that  after  they  had  been  mar 
ried  some  time,  he  should  one  day  meet  a  woman 
with  whom  there  would  be  no  question  of  esteem 
and  admiration,  but  of  love  itself,  the  kind  you  read 


LOVE    STORY    OF    ROBERT    PROUTY     235 

about,  the  kind  that  makes  you  crazy  after  the 
adored  one — then  what?  Wouldn't  he  wish  then  that 
he  had  waited  for  the  grand  passion,  and  not  have 
contented  himself  with  a  feeble  imitation  of  it?  His 
life  would  be  blighted,  and  not  his  alone,  but  this 
other  woman's  and  Alice's.  He  felt  a  pale  regret  for 
the  other  woman,  but  a  sorrow  for  Alice's  fate  that 
amounted  to  a  blushing  shame.  It  would  be  dog 
mean  of  him  if,  in  this  future  madness,  he  should 
be  tempted  to  desert  her  and — and  perhaps  her 
children. 

What  could  he  do?  Perhaps  she  had  not  gone  such 
lengths  in  love  of  him  that  to  retrace  her  steps  was 
impossible.  If  he  should  leave  for  New  York  to 
morrow — but  he  had  made  an  engagement  to  take 
her  for  a  drive  to-morrow.  And  what  was  the  use 
of  going  to  New  York  so  long  before  the  season 
opened? 

He  resolved  to  let  the  affair  die  out.  It  ought  not 
to  be  broken  off  suddenly,  for  that  would  make  talk 
and  wound  her;  but  gradually,  little  by  little. 


IV 

"  Well,  Alice,  child,  I  can't  advise  you.  Every 
time  we  talk  it  over,  it  comes  to  the  same  thing. 
If  you  think  he's  the  best  you  can  do " 

"  Mother!  "  Such  commercialism  was  revolting. 


236  FOLKS    BACK    HOME 

'  You  needn't  fly  up  at  me  that  way.  You  know 
what  I  mean.  If  you  like  him " 

"  Oh,  I  like  him,  but  that  isn't  it." 

"  Well,  then,  what  is  the  trouble?  Don't  you  think 
he  likes  you?  " 

"  Well,  of  course,  he  hasn't  said,  but " 

Mrs.  La  Fetra  smiled  with  compressed  lips,  and 
waited  in  silence. 

"  If  I  was  right  sure  I  loved  him — that  is,  loved 
him  as  much  as  he  loves  me — O  mother,  I  know  he 
loves  me,  I  just  know  he  does!  If  I  really  loved  him, 
I  wouldn't  hesitate  one  second  about  giving  up  my 
career.  And  I  can't  bear  to!  " 

"  Well,  Alice,  if  I  was  you,  I  wouldn't  cross  the 
bridge  till  I  got  to  it.  You'll  do  as  you  please  any 
how,  so  I  don't  see  as  there's  much  use  of  my  saying 
anything." 


The  breaking  off  was  indeed  gradual — so  gradual 
as  to  be  imperceptible  to  any  but  Bob.  It  was  so  hard 
to  begin  without  wounding  Alice's  feelings;  and  he 
could  not  bring  himself  to  do  that  in  the  least.  If  he 
left  off  calling,  she  would  think  she  had  offended 
him,  and  would  torture  herself  trying  to  think  how. 
So  in  the  morning  he  felt  obliged  to  ask  her:  "  What 
are  you  going  to  do  this  afternoon?  What  do  you 
say  if  we  go  boating?  " — or  walking  or  whatever  it 


LOVE    STORY    OF    ROBERT    PROUTY     237 

might  be.  In  the  afternoon  he  found  himself  making 
an  appointment  for  the  evening,  and  in  the  evening 
for  the  next  day. 

But  though  the  breaking  off  was  thus  gradual,  it 
was  not  to  be  understood  that  there  had  ever  been 
any  "  going  with  "  her.  It  made  him  furious  to  see 
the  knowing  way  Harry  Allgire  and  that  De  Wees 
girl  grinned  when  they  met  Alice  and  him.  If  they 
could  see  how  silly  they  looked! 

"  Isn't  it  sickening?  "  he  said  to  Alice  after  they 
had  passed  the  two  spoons.  "  Isn't  that  the  worst 
case  of  puppy  love  you  ever  did  see?  " 

"  Awful,"  she  agreed. 

He  remembered  her  saying  that,  because  the  next 
instant  she  clung  wildly  to  him  for  protection. 
Brown's  big  St.  Bernard  bounced  out  upon  them, 
barking  furiously.  Bob  had  only  to  pretend  to  pick 
up  a  stone,  and  the  mere  gesture  scared  the  foolish 
young  dog,  who  dropped  his  tail  and  fled. 

"Oh,  he  frightened  me  so!" 

Alice  sighed  and  clung  to  him,  and  looked  up  into 
his  eyes  gratefully.  He  took  her  hand  in  both  his 
and  petted  it.  It  was  lucky  that  they  came  out  im 
mediately  from  under  the  thick  beeches  in  front  of 
Brown's  into  the  bright  light  of  the  electric  in  front 
of  Hill's,  for  Bob  felt  the  most  insane  desire  to 
crush  her  against  him  roughly,  so  that  she  should 
cry  out:  "  Bob!  You're  hurting  me!  " 


238  FOLKS    BACK   HOME 

The  momentary  madness  left  him  trembling.  His 
heart  hammered,  and  he  had  to  keep  swallowing.  It 
was  an  impulse  at  once  exultant  and  regrettable. 
He  flushed  to  think  how  she  would  scorn  him  if 
she  had  dreamed  that  he  was  even  tempted  to 
"  hug  "  her.  A  vulgarian  like  Harry  Allgire  probably 
bragged  about  "  hugging "  his  "  girl."  It  was  a 
shame  to  think  of  such  a  word  in  the  same  hour  with 
Alice. 


VI 

"  You're  not  going  out  to-night,  are  you,  Rob 
bie?  "  pleaded  his  mother. 

"  Why,  yes,  I  thought  I  would,"  he  answered 
guiltily,  halting  on  the  bottom  step  of  the  veranda. 
"  I  told — I  said  I'd  be  over  this  evening  for  a  little 
while." 

"The  very  last  evening!"  she  said  reproachfully. 
"  We  haven't  seen  hardly  anything  of  you  all  sum 
mer,  and  I  laid  out  to  have  such  a  nice  long  visit 
with  my  boy.  And  you're  going  away  to-morrow 
noon!  Dear  knows  when  I'll  ever  see  you  again — 
maybe  never."  Her  voice  quavered  as  she  dramatized 
the  worst.  She  came  down  the  steps  so  as  to  put  her 
hand  on  his  farther  shoulder  and  let  her  wrist  lie 
against  his  neck.  Bob  looked  down  and  stirred  the 
gravel  with  his  toe.  "  You're  the  only  boy  I've  got," 


LOVE    STORY    OF    ROBERT    PROUTY     239 

she  added,  and  Bob  could  tell  there  were  tears  in 
her  eyes.  He  dared  not  look  to  see.  They  even  began 
to  come  into  his  own  eyes.  What  a  hypocrite  he  was, 
he  thought!  How  heartless  in  him,  after  that  appeal, 
still  to  wish  to  go  and  leave  her! 

"  I  won't  stay  but  a  little  while,"  he  said  to  his 
mother,  but  not  less  to  his  conscience. 

She  suddenly  bent  down  and  kissed  him.  She 
thrust  his  face  against  her  bosom  and  gripped  it 
there. 

"  My  boy!  "  she  half  whispered,  half  groaned,  then 
released  him  and  fled  up  the  steps  and  into  the 
house. 

Bob  knew  he  ought  to  have  followed  her.  He  said 
so  to  himself.  He  said  he  must  be  void  of  natural 
affection  to  be  so  selfish,  so  unable  to  make  ade 
quate  response  to  love  lavished  upon  him  by  his 
mother  and — Alice. 

His  progress  to  the  La  Fetra  house,  though,  was 
as  steady  as  if  none  of  these  thoughts  had  entered 
his  mind.  His  excuse  was  that  he  was  going  to  stay 
only  a  few  minutes;  then  he  would  return  and  spend 
the  last  evening  of  his  visit  with  his  parents. 


VII 

Mr.  Prouty's  ear  noted  a  little  quivering  sigh  as 
his  wife  cleared  the  supper  table.  He  looked  up  from 


24o  FOLKS    BACK    HOME 

the  Cincinnati  paper  and  saw  that  she  had  her  under 
lip  bitten  fast  and  that  her  chin  was  trembling. 

"Why,  what's  the  matter,  mother?  What's  the 
matter?  " 

He  rose  to  meet  her  as  with  a  whimper  she  ran 
to  him  and  flung  her  arms  upon  his  shoulder. 

"There,  there!"  he  soothed  her,  and  patted  her 
softly.  As  he  bent  his  neck  to  kiss  her,  his  glasses 
slid  off,  and  his  awkward  stooping  for  them  made 
her  titter  hysterically.  He  drew  her  down  into  his 
lap  in  the  Morris  chair,  where  she  made  him  under 
stand. 

"  It's  foolish  of  me,  I  know,"  she  fluttered,  "  to  be 
so  jealous-hearted,  but  I  can't  help  it." 

"  I  know,  I  know,"  he  said,  and  stroked  her  hair; 
"  but,  deary,  it  has  to  be  that  way.  You  know  that. 
He's  got  to  make  another  place  and  call  it  home. 
He  must  forsake  us  and  cleave  to  her.  Ah  me!  It 
seems  only  yesterday  since  we — "  He  kept  silence 
and  stroked  her  hair  a  long  time,  then:  "  Say,  do 
you  know  what  he  asked  me  the  other  day?  I 
thought  there  was  something  up.  He  said:  '  Father, 
what  did  you  say  to  mother  when  you  proposed  to 
her?  '  " 

Mrs.  Prouty  mused  smilingly,  and  then  asked: 
"  What  did  you  tell  him?  " 

"  I  told  him  I  didn't  remember.  Been  so  long  ago. 
What  did  I  say?  " 


LOVE    STORY    OF   ROBERT   PROUTY     241 

"Laws,  I  don't  know!" 

"  And  what  did  you  say?  " 

"  You  know  well  enough  what  I  said." 

"  Did  you  tell  me  you  loved  me?  " 

"  I  don't  know.  I  reckon  so.  I  was  green  enough 
in  those  days  to  say  'most  anything.  Let  me  up. 
I've  got  to  clear  away  the  supper  things." 

"  Oh,  they  can  wait.  Do  you  love  me  now?  Tell 
me." 

"  Oh,  behave  yourself!  Don't  be  so  soft." 

But  she  kissed  him  and  twined  a  lock  of  his  thin 
hair  about  her  fingers. 

"  But  do  you?  Tell  me." 

"  Of  course  I  do.  Do  you  think  I'd  have  put  up 
with  you  all  these  years  if  I  hadn't?  "  She  was  remi- 
niscently  silent  for  a  time,  and  then  she  sighed:  "  I 
don't  believe  you  ever  loved  me  as  much  as  I  loved 
you." 

It  was  more  a  question  than  a  reproach;  but  he 
felt  the  reproach,  and  made  haste  to  declare: 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  did.  Yes,  I  did.  Maybe  I  wasn't  as 
demonstrative.  I  never  was  much  of  a  hand  to  make 
a  display,  but " 

In  the  pause  that  followed  he  asked  himself,  had 
he  ever  loved  his  wife  as  much  as  she  loved  him? 
Did  he  really  love  her  now?  Was  it  love,  or  had  they 
grown  together  so  that  wrenching  them  apart  would 
deal  a  pang  so  terrible,  so  agonizingly  terrible,  as 


242  FOLKS    BACK    HOME 

barely  to  escape  being  mortal?  If  he  should  lose 
her!  O  good  God,  avert  it!  He  shuddered  at  the 
thought. 

The  same  idea  in  her  mind  made  her  sigh  deeply. 
Eager  to  dismiss  a  subject  so  disquieting,  she  rose 
and  went  about  her  work,  while  her  husband  took 
up  the  Cincinnati  paper. 

VIII 

Bob  stayed  only  a  little  while.  Soon  after  he  ap 
peared,  her  father  and  mother  went  to  bed  at  an 
astonishingly  early  hour  for  them.  He  and  Alice 
chatted  a  few  minutes,  as  it  seemed,  and  then  he 
rose  to  go. 

On  opening  the  front  door,  the  world  without  was 
stiller  than  common.  He  took  her  hand  in  his  to 
bid  her  good-by.  He  felt  strangely  sad  and  lonely. 
To-morrow  he  was  to  return  to  New  York  and  try 
for  his  life  to  find  a  finger  hold  upon  the  face  of  that 
sheer  precipice.  It  is  a  thing  to  make  a  cold  sick 
ness  at  the  heart.  The  pleasant  summer  idleness  was 
ended.  This  was  the  last  of  it,  and  there  are  few 
things  of  which  we  can  say  without  emotion:  "  This 
is  the  last!" 

It  was  the  last  time,  too,  that  he  should  talk  with 
Alice.  Perhaps  he  did  not  love  her,  but  he  would 
miss  her  terribly.  It  cut  him  cruelly  to  think  how  he 


LOVE    STORY   OF   ROBERT   PROUTY     243 

would  miss  her,  and  he  tightened  his  grip  upon  her 
hand,  which  lingered  still  in  his. 

Her  gaze  suddenly  dropped  before  his  eyes,  and 
her  bosom  rose  and  fell  in  labored  breathing.  There 
recurred  the  wild  desire  to  crush  her  roughly  to  his 
breast — roughly,  so  that  she  should  cry  out.  He 
could  not  withstand  it.  As  he  seized  her  brutally,  she 
turned  her  face  upward  to  his,  and  he  kissed  her 
again  and  again  and  yet  again,  unnumbered  times, 
frantically,  blindly.  The  hot  blood  thumping  in  every 
artery  dizzied  him.  His  chest  panted  as  if  with  sob 
bing.  He  choked.  His  ears  rang.  His  fingers  shud 
dered  violently  as  he  twined  them  feverishly  in  hers. 

"I  do  love  you!  I  do  love  you!"  he  muttered 
hoarsely.  "Do  you  love  me?  My  darling!  My  dar- 
ling!" 

"Yes!"  she  whispered,  and  her  soul  looked 
through  her  eyes  at  him.  What  beautiful  eyes  she 
had!  "  Yes,  yes,  I  do  love  you!  " 

Entering  his  own  gate,  he  heard  the  town  clock 
strike  the  hour.  The  bell  sounded  once — but  there 
was  no  second  note.  Hearkening,  he  heard  the  crash 
of  freight  cars  in  the  yards  a  mile  away.  He  could 
even  distinguish  the  words  of  the  night  yardmaster 
bawling  an  order  to  the  pony  engineer.  But  he  heard 
no  second  bell  stroke.  Astonished,  he  looked  at  his 
watch.  It  was  one  o'clock!  He  had  thought  it  might 
be  ten,  surely  not  eleven. 


244  FOLKS    BACK    HOME 


IX 

Bob  found  New  York  even  lonelier  than  he  had 
feared.  He  had  taken  a  hall  room  and  in  a  cheaper 
boarding  house,  and  had  shunned  his  old  acquaint 
ances,  that  he  might  the  better  husband  his  little 
capital.  It  proved  harder  than  he  thought  to  "  catch 
on."  It  is  a  long  story,  this  looking  for  work,  long 
and  heartbreaking.  But  for  Alice's  letter  coming 
every  day,  he  could  not  have  stood  it.  How  they 
bore  him  up!  How  full  of  vivid  promise  was  the 
assurance  in  her  writing  that  the  darkest  hour  was 
just  before  the  dawn! 

He  missed  her  more  than  he  could  tell.  She  was 
the  dearest  girl!  He  wished  it  was  in  his  nature  to 
be  more  loving  than  he  was,  to  love  her  as  she  loved 
him.  That  burst  of  passion  the  night  he  parted  from 
her  he  knew  now  for  what  it  was.  He  was  glad  that 
her  pure  spirit  had  not  guessed  it.  If  he  could  get 
a  little  bit  ahead,  so  that  he  could  marry,  he  would 
marry  her.  It  would  be  terrible,  though,  if,  after  all, 
another  woman  should  appear  and  he  should  fall  in 
love  with  her — in  genuine  love,  this  time.  It  would 
break  Alice's  heart.  He  might  better  go  to  his  grave 
not  knowing  what  real  love  was  than  that  he  should 
break  the  heart  of  such  a  girl  as  Alice. 

He  must   get    something  to  do,   even  if  it  was 


LOVE  STORY  OF  ROBERT  PROUTY  245 
not  in  his  line.  For  Alice's  sake,  he  would  sink 
his  pride.  They  made  money  selling  books,  he  had 
heard.  It  could  be  no  harder  than  asking  for 
employ. 

Just  below  Twenty-second  Street,  on  his  way 
down  Fifth  Avenue  to  a  subscription  book  house,  he 
noted  Maxwell  coming  toward  him.  He  pretended 
not  to  see  him;  but  Maxwell  walked  up,  stuck  out 
his  hand,  and  said: 

"Hello!" 

Bob  answered  and  took  the  hand.  There  was  no 
sense  in  being  rude.  If  Maxwell  had  been  in  the 
wrong,  Bob  had  not  been  wholly  in  the  right. 

"  Where  you  been  all  summer?  In  your  yacht?  " 

Bob  smiled  grudgingly. 

"  Out  in  Ohio,"  he  said.  "  Just  got  back  a  couple 
of  weeks  ago." 

"  Doing  anything?  " 

Bob  winced.  Maxwell  noted  it  as  he  revolved  his 
cigar  in  his  mouth  and  shut  his  left  eye  to  exclude 
the  smoke. 

"  Well,  not  exactly." 

"  Now,  look  here,"  said  Maxwell,  taking  Bob  by 
the  arm  and  leading  him  to  a  store  front,  out  of  the 
tide  of  travel.  "  There  wasn't  any  need  for  you  to 
get  your  back  up  the  way  you  did.  You  might  know 
I  had  to  call  you  down  about  that  Camden  order. 
I  never  thought  you  were  going  to  fly  off  the  handle 


246  FOLKS    BACK   HOME 

and  quit.  I  was  mighty  sorry  about  that.  I  always 
liked  you  and  liked  your  ways." 

He  stopped  and  looked  steadily  at  Bob,  who  swal 
lowed  and  picked  at  a  roughness  in  the  painted  iron. 
He  had  been  a  fool.  He  saw  it  now.  Maxwell  had 
been  in  the  right,  or  not  enough  in  the  wrong  to 
make  a  fuss  about  it.  He  was  just  going  to  say  so 
when  Maxwell  spoke: 

"  Well,  I  must  run  along.  Glad  to  see  you  again. 
Oh,  by  the  way,  Robbins  is  sick.  Went  home  yester 
day.  Think  you  could  take  charge  of  his  department 
for  him  till  he  gets  back?  All  right!  See  you  to 
morrow  morning,  then.  So  long!  I've  got  to  run." 


Many,  many  verses  of  the  old  air  indifferently 
known  as  "  Rousseau's  Dream,"  "  Days  of  Absence," 
"Go  Tell  Aunt  Rhody,"  and  "Greenville,"  all 
to  four  syllables  repeated  over  and  over  again, 
had  been  sung  and  sung.  They  had  been  followed 
by  long-drawn  susurrations,  by  silence,  and  by  a 
stealthy  withdrawal  from  the  room  with  the  white 
iron  crib  in  it. 

On  the  front  stoop  Rob  and  this  Mr.  Maxwell,  a 
friend  of  his,  were  talking  as  they  smoked  their 
after-dinner  cigars  and  admired  one  of  the  sunsets 
for  which  Long  Island  is  so  justly  famed.  She  could 


LOVE   STORY   OF    ROBERT   PROUTY     247 

hear  most  of  what  Rob  said,  but  Mr.  Maxwell  had 
a  more  muffled  way  of  speaking. 

"Oh,  that's  all  my  eye!"  Rob  said.  "I  used  to 
be  afraid  of  the  same  thing  myself,  but  I  tell  you 
this  other  woman  won't  come  along  unless  you're 
looking  for  her.  And  if  this  certain  party  you  speak 
of  is  as  fond  of  you  as  you  say — "  An  interval,  and 
then:  "  I  understand.  I  understand.  We  were  just 
supposing.  If  she  really  loves  you,  you  simply  can 
not  take  any  interest  in  another  woman.  That  is,  if 
this  certain  party  you  speak  of  is  as  sensible  and 
good  a  little  woman  as  my  wife.  Say,  do  you  know, 
I've  got  one  out  of  a  thousand — yes,  one  out  of 
a  million!  I'm  the  luckiest  man  alive.  I  don't  de 
serve  it.  When  I  think  that  she  loves  me — me,  mind 
you — do  you  think  I'd  look  at  another  woman?  I 
couldn't.  I  couldn't!  It  would  be  dog  mean!" 

The  baby  stirred  just  then,  and  Alice  missed  what 
came  next.  He  had  lowered  his  voice.  But  this  is 
what  he  said: 

"  You  don't  have  to  have  this  wild,  passionate, 
story-book  love.  I  think  that's  kind  of  kiddish.  There 
never  was  any  of  it  in  my  case.  Just  esteem,  that's 
all.  She  was  the  only  woman  I  ever  met  that  didn't 
make  me  tired.  She's  company,  if  she  doesn't  say  a 
word." 

The  baby  was  sound  asleep. 

"  Oh,  it's  the  only  way  to  live,"  Rob  went  on. 


248  FOLKS    BACK    HOME 

"  Why,  I'm  as  happy — as  happy  " — he  searched  for 
a  comparison — "  as  happy  as  a  hen  in  a  flower  bed. 
Hush!  There  she  comes.  Here,  take  this  rocking 
chair,  honey.  Well,  he  fought  against  it  as  long  as 
he  could,  didn't  he,  the  little  rascal!" 


THE    DAYS   OF   HIS   SEPARATION 

JIMMY  DARLING  stood  in  his  sock  feet  be 
fore  his  bureau,  combing  out  his  long  red  hair 
and  braiding  it  for  the  night.  As  he  braided, 
he  noticed  for  the  first  time  one  or  two  threads  of 
white.  At  such  a  time,  if  ever,  a  man  casts  up  ac 
counts  with  life,  the  earnest  of  that  final  accounting, 
plainly  not  so  very  far  away. 

He  had  come  home  that  night,  as  he  had  come 
home  any  night  since  his  sister  married  and  moved 
to  Kansas,  to  a  dark  and  cheerless  home.  He  had 
lighted  the  lamps  and  made  the  fires;  had  cooked 
and  eaten  his  lone  supper;  had  washed  the  dishes  and 
tidied  up.  He  was  a  neat  housekeeper — for  a  man. 
To-morrow  he  would  cook  and  eat  his  lone  break 
fast,  do  up  his  lunch,  and  go  to  work  in  the  carriage 
factory.  To-morrow  and  the  next  day  and  so  on,  as 
he  had  done  yesterday  and  the  day  before  and  so 
on.  And  what  was  the  good  of  it  all? 

It  might  have  been  very  different  with  him.  He 
thought  how  it  would  be  if,  when  he  clicked  the  gate 
latch,  he  might  have  seen  the  cheery  lamps  shining 
for  him;  if,  when  he  trod  the  narrow  brick  walk  by 

249 


250  FOLKS    BACK   HOME 

the  side  of  the  house,  he  might  have  seen  through 
the  window  the  white  cloth  gleaming  and  the  glass 
and  silver  gayly  twinkling  at  him;  if,  when  he  opened 
the  back  door,  the  warm  and  savory  kitchen  air 
gushed  in  his  face;  if  some  one  had  said,  "Well, 
Jimmy,"  and  put  her  mouth  up  to  be  kissed,  and 
romping  children  had  flung  themselves  against  him. 
There  is  a  fatherhood  as  well  as  a  motherhood,  and 
they  tell  me  that  a  bachelor  when  he  sees  his  first 
gray  hair  thinks  of  these  things. 

She  who  would  say,  "  Well,  Jimmy,"  was  no 
vague  abstraction  of  the  feminine.  Ever  since  he  be 
gan  to  "  take  notice  of  ?em,"  she  was  Hetty  Funk 
that  was,  now  Mrs.  Chris  Hyams.  Clairvoyantly 
Jimmy  saw  that  no  such  welcome  waited  on  Chris 
Hyams'  homecoming,  and  that  the  children  trem 
ulously  shadowed  in  the  background  until  they  knew 
whether  pa  was  "all  right."  Poor  Chris!  Once  a 
dashing  sort  of  fellow,  and  a  first-rate  workman, 
he  was  now  "  his  own  worst  enemy,"  if  you  know 
what  that  means. 

All  that  the  Bible  says  about  the  Nazarite,  how 
he  never  tasted  strong  drink,  and  how,  while  his 
vow  lasted,  no  hair  of  his  head  was  shorn,  was 
known  by  heart  to  Jimmy  Darling.  The  sixth  chap 
ter  of  Numbers  was  worn  and  tattered  to  a  brown 
flake.  To-night  as  he  beheld  the  threads  of  white 
in  his  thick  red  braids,  he  found  himself  repeating 


THE    DAYS    OF    HIS    SEPARATION      251 

the  words,  "And  this  is  the  law  of  the  Nazarite 
when  the  days  of  his  separation  are  fulfilled.  .  .  . 
When  the  days  of  his  separation  are  fulfilled."  Ful 
filled?  They  never  could  be  now  as  he  dreamed 
they  would.  It  was  as  if  those  white  strands  had  been 
the  filaments  of  electric  lamps  that  shed  light  into  a 
dark  place.  His  vow  that  had  been  his  stay  so  long 
against  the  smile  of  those  to  whom  he  had  been 
pointed  out  as  a  "  character  "...  Why,  it  was  no 
vow  at  all! 

In  his  youth  when,  like  the  rest  of  us,  he  sought 
a  reconciliation  of  what  is  with  what  ought  to  be, 
he  had  lighted  upon  what  seemed  to  him  to  be  the 
Cause  of  All  the  Trouble.  It  was  Whisky.  Nothing 
could  be  a  plainer  duty  than  to  abolish  Whisky.  And 
that  could  be  done  as  soon  as  ever  the  decent  men, 
who  certainly  outnumber  all  the  vile  and  reckless, 
should  vote  to  have  it  done.  On  a  November  day, 
range  all  the  wolves  on  one  side,  range  all  the  sheep 
on  the  other;  give  the  word,  "  One.  .  .  .  Two.  .  .  . 
Three.  .  .  .  Go!"  and  the  sheep  would  butt  the 
wolves  to  death.  Ended  the  miserable  past;  begun 
the  golden,  happy  future.  It  had  seemed  to  him  so 
sure  a  thing  that  he  had  made  it  up  with  old  Jake 
Reinhart  that,  from  that  day  and  date,  he,  James  M. 
Darling,  party  of  the  first  part,  would  not  cut  his 
hair,  or  have  it  cut,  until  there  was  a  Prohibition 
President  of  these  United  States;  and  to  make  it  a 


252  FOLKS   BACK   HOME 

fair  bargain,  for  his  part,  he,  Jacob  S.  Reinhart, 
party  of  the  second  part,  covenanted  and  agreed  not 
to  cut  his  hair  after  there  was  a  Prohibition  Presi 
dent  of  these  United  States. 

It  was  no  solemn  vow — only  an  election  bet.  He 
saw  that  now,  and  wondered  he  had  not  seen  it 
sooner.  It  was  no  solemn  vow,  but  his  days  had  been 
"  days  of  separation,"  without  a  doubt.  He  had  been 
keeping  company  with  Hetty  Funk,  but  when  he 
explained  to  her  his  vow,  she  mittened  him  in  hot 
temper.  She  said  she  wasn't  going  to  be  made  a 
mock  of  by  nobody,  and  if  he  liked  her  as  well  as 
he  said  he  did,  he  wouldn't  think  of  such  a  fool 
caper.  Why,  the  very  idea!  She  didn't  deny  but 
what  she  liked  him,  but  if  he  thought — if  he  thought 
she  was  going  to  marry  a  man  that  went  around 
lookin'  like  a  Taw-way  Injun,  with  his  hair  a-flyin', 
why  he  was  mighty  much  mistaken,  that  was  all!  She 
stood  there  a  minute,  burst  into  a  loud  fit  of  crying, 
and  ran  out  and  slammed  the  door  behind  her.  There 
would  be  no  Prohibition  President  of  these  United 
States.  He  knew  that  well.  Year  by  year  the  vote  was 
dwindling.  Jake  Reinhart  was  long  dead,  so  that  even 
if  victory  would  come,  it  would  bring  no  triumph. 
He  might  as  well  absolve  himself  of  his  vow — if  it 
was  a  vow.  But — it  had  gone  so  long  now — and  peo 
ple  would  think  it  strange  if —  He  smiled  that  he, 
of  all  men,  should  consider  what  "  people  thought." 


THE    DAYS    OF    HIS    SEPARATION      253 

A  faint  shudder  thrilled  his  spine.  Standing  there 
in  his  sock  feet  so  long,  he  probably  had  taken  cold. 
He  must  attend  to  it  at  once.  It  was  the  policy  of 
his  life  never  to  neglect  the  beginnings  of  a  cold. 
He  went  to  the  cupboard  and  took  down  a  bottle 
of  Dr.  Hooker's  Celebrated  Chil-e-na. 

Chil-e-na  is  one  of  the  finest  medicines  ever  put 
forth.  It  is  good  for  almost  every  chronic  ailment 
that  almost  everybody  has.  It  is  a  sovereign  remedy 
for  catarrh,  colds,  consumption,  and  pneumonia.  It 
cures  dyspepsia  in  all  its  hideous  forms.  Also,  rheu 
matism  and  neuralgia.  It  repairs  the  ravages  of  ma 
laria,  nervous  prostration,  and  general  debility.  For 
"  that  sinking  feeling  "  it  is  a  positive  specific.  It 
tones  up  the  system,  and  makes  rich  red  blood.  For 
sale  at  all  druggists  at  one  dollar  a  bottle.  As  it 
is  better  to  be  always  well  than  to  get  sick  and  be 
cured  again,  it  is  earnestly  advised  that  all  should 
keep  their  systems  toned  up  by  regularly  taking  two 
tablespoonfuls  of  this  invaluable  remedy  before  each 
meal  and  upon  retiring,  also  when  feeling  particu 
larly  exhausted,  and  to  ward  off  colds.  Many  a  time, 
on  coming  home  from  the  carriage  factory  all  tired 
out,  Jimmy  had  taken  a  dose  for  "  that  sinking  feel 
ing,"  and  it  had  toned  up  his  system  and  made  rich 
red  blood  right  away.  He  could  notice  the  difference 
immediately. 

It  had  been  in  the  Enquirer  about  his  vow  not  to 


254  FOLKS    BACK    HOME 

cut  his  hair  until  there  was  a  Prohibition  President, 
but  Jimmy  had  not  been  much  set  up  by  this  no 
toriety.  He  didn't  think  much  of  The  Cincinnati 
Enquirer  anyhow.  But  he  felt  right  proud  to  know 
that  his  signed  testimonial  to  the  healing  and  pre 
serving  powers  of  Dr.  Hooker's  Celebrated  Chil-e- 
na,  accompanied  by  a  large  line-and-dot  portrait  of 
himself  with  his  braids  hung  in  front,  nicely  done 
up  with  ribbon  bows,  had  been  spread  broadcast 
throughout  the  land,  in  the  illustrious  company  of 
admirals,  statesmen,  the  reverend  clergy,  and  people 
who  had  lived  to  be  a  hundred  and  five  years  old.  To 
have  convinced  one  person  of  the  merits  of  Chil-e-na 
was  to  have  done  some  good  in  the  world.  The 
testimonial  had  convinced  Jimmy  at  least;  for  there 
after  he  bought  Chil-e-na  by  the  case  and  kept  it  in 
the  cellar. 

As  he  replaced  the  bottle  in  the  cupboard  he 
heard  a  rap  on  his  front  door.  Visitors  were  rare 
enough,  but  who  could  it  be  at  this  hour?  He  hoped 
not  that  Christian  Science  fellow  come  to  tell  about 
curing  the  cat  of  fits  by  reading  to  it  out  of  a  book, 
or  Daniel  the  Second  come  to  explain  what  Daniel 
the  First  meant  by  "  a  time,  times,  and  a  half  time." 
What  possessed  crazy  folks  to  come  trailing  after 
him  so? 

He  tried  to  make  out  the  features  of  the  man 
standing  timidly  on  the  verge  of  the  front  porch. 


THE    DAYS    OF    HIS    SEPARATION      255 

"  Don't  you  recognize  me?  "  asked  the  stranger, 
coming  a  little  nearer.  "  I'm  Chris.  Th-n-n-n!  Chris 
Hyams." 

"  Oh,  how  do  you  do?  "  said  Jimmy  with  some 
embarrassment. 

The  man  waited  an  awkward  moment. 

"  Are — are  you  busy?  " 

"  Why,  no,  I  was  just  going  to  bed." 

"  I — er — could  I  come  in  an'  set  a  while?  " 

"Why,  certainly.  Certainly.  Walk  in.  Walk  in." 
Jimmy  blushed  to  think  that  he  was  forgetting  how 
to  act  when  company  came. 

Mr.  Hyams  entered,  flickering  his  eyes  at  the 
light.  He  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  the  first  chair  he 
saw.  Coming  inside  seemed  to  satisfy  him.  He  sat 
there  and  flickered  his  eyes  in  silence  for  some  min 
utes.  He  needed  a  shave,  had  needed  it  for  about 
a  week.  His  hair  was  tousled,  his  linen  was  black 
ened  at  the  edges,  and  his  clothing  had  patches  of 
dried  mud  upon  it.  At  times  he  trembled  so  vio 
lently  as  to  alarm  Jimmy.  He  looked  to  be  kind 
of  run  down  in  health,  and  as  if  his  system  needed 
toning  up.  That  did  not  seem  to  be  an  auspicious 
opening  for  conversation  though,  and  Jimmy  had 
about  decided  to  begin  with,  "  To  what  am  I  in 
debted  for  the  honor  of  this  visit?  "  when  Mr.  Hyams 
announced: 

"  Twa'n't  no  way  to  act." 


256  FOLKS    BACK    HOME 

"  What  say?  " 

"  Huh?  Oh — er — I  said  it  wa'n't  no  way  to  act. 
Lockin'  up  the  house  on  me  that  way/' 

Jimmy  wrinkled  his  brows  at  this  cryptic  state 
ment.  Locking  him  up? 

"  But  you  got  out,"  he  ventured. 

"  Huh?  " 

"  I  say  you  got  out." 

"  I  was  out,"  said  Hyams  ruefully.  "  I  couldn't  git 
in." 

He  flickered  his  eyes  for  some  minutes  longer,  and 
then  proceeded. 

"  I  went  round  to  the  back  door,  an'  it  was  locked. 
So  I  tried  the  side  door.  It  was  locked.  So  I  couldn't 
git  in  there.  So  I  went  round  and  rung  the  front 
door  bell.  Two,  three  times  I  rung  it.  Nob'dy  come. 
So  I  tried  to  git  in  the  pantry  window,  but  they 
was  a  case  knife  stuck  in  so's  it  wouldn't  hyste.  I 
could  of  broke  in  the  window,  but  I  thought  I  bet 
ter  not.  So  I  didn't.  Would  you?  " 

"  No,"  replied  the  mystified  Jimmy.  He  felt  that 
it  was  safe  to  say  that. 

"  No.  Me  neither.  So  I  went  to  the  suller  door  to 
git  in  that  way.  Suller  door  was  padlocked.  Yes,  sir. 
It  was  padlocked!  Never  heard  o'  such  a  thing  be 
fore.  So — so  I  clomb  up  to  where  I  could  peek  in  at 
the  window.  Not  the  sign  of  a  livin'  soul  about.  Not 
a  livin'  soul! " 


THE    DAYS    OF    HIS    SEPARATION      257 

He  sighed,  and  stopped  short  as  if  he  had  fin 
ished. 

"  Er — whose  house  did  you  say  this  was?  " 

"  Didn't  appear  to  be  nob'dy's,"  replied  Mr. 
Hyams  with  an  engaging  smile. 

"  Looks  o'  things.  So — so  I  went  over  to  the  old 
lady's.  I  knocked,  an'  she  come  to  the  door.  '  Go 
on  away  from  here/  she  says  to  me,  jist  luck  that. 
'  Go  on  away  now/  An'  I  says,  '  Hold  on  a  second/ 
I  says,  '  I  want  to  ast  you  somepin/  I  says.  '  Well, 
she  ain't  here/  she  says,  '  if  that's  what  you're  after/ 
she  says.  '  Well/  I  says,  '  I'm  a-comin'  in  to  see  if 
she  ain't/  I  says.  I  wasn't  goin'  to  let  her  bluff  me 
that  way.  Aw,  no!  Aw,  no!  '  'Deed  you  ain't/  she 
says,  '  'deed  you  ain't.  You  git  right  out  of  my  yard/ 
she  says.  '  These  is  my  premises/  she  says,  '  an'  you 
git,  right  this  instant/  she  says.  '  You  dass  to  make 
a  move  to  come  into  my  house/  she  says,  '  without 
I  ast  you/  she  says,  'an'  I'll  take  an'  mash  your 
head  in  with  the  ax/  she  says.  '  You  lazy,  good-for- 
nothin',  triflin',  on'ry,  drunken  hound/  she  says.  An' 
I  wasn't  drunk  at  all.  Jist  as  sober  as  what  you  see 
me  right  now." 

"  Who  was  this  that  you  had  this  conversation 
with?  "  inquired  Jimmy. 

"  Miz  Funk." 

"  Oh,  Mrs.  Funk.  Hetty's  mother." 

"  Miz  Mary  Ann  Funk  said  them  very  words  to 


258  FOLKS    BACK   HOME 

me.  To  me,  mind  you,  her  own  lawful  son-in-law, 
by  jing!  Aw,  she  talked  to  me  meaner'n  a  dog." 

"  And  what  had  you  done?  " 

"Me?  I  hadn't  done  nothin'.  Not  one  thing."  He 
paused  and  reflected. 

"An9  I  ain't  likely  to  do  much  of  anything  now 
for  quite  a  spell." 

"  How  so?  " 

"Lost  my  job."  v 

"  Lost  your  job?  " 

"  M'm.  Got  the  sack.  Went  round  this  mornin* — 
think  it  was  this  mornin' — what  day's  to-day?  " 

"  To-day?  To-day's  Friday." 

"Friday!  Aw,  git  out!  Aw,  quitch  foolin'.  Tain't 
Friday." 

"  Certainly  it's  Friday." 

"  Honest?  Well,  mebby  'tis.  I  kind  o'  lost  track. 
Anyways,  I  went  round.  So — so  Kearney,  he  seen 
me  hanging  up  my  hat,  so  he  says  to  me,  '  Nixy. 
Your  services  is  no  longer  required,'  he  says. 
'  You're  through,'  he  says.  *  You  got  the  bounce. 
Fly  away,  pretty  bird!'  Say!  He's  too  fresh,  that 
man  is.  I  don't  like  to  see  a  man  too  fresh.  Specially 
a  foreman.  A  foreman — a  foreman  had  orta  have 
more — more  dignity  about  him  than  to  go  an'  git 
fresh.  '  Aw,  go  on,'  I  says,  *  I  gotta  go  to  work  an' 
earn  a  few  pennies,'  I  says.  '  Not  here,'  he  says.  *  Aw, 
now,  Mike/  I  says,  '  I  need  the  money/  I  says.  *  I 


THE    DAYS    OF    HIS    SEPARATION      259 

ain't  got  a  sou  markee/  I  told  him.  '  That  don't  in 
terest  me  none,'  he  says.  '  We  don't  want  no  more 
drunken  bums  around  this  shop,'  he  says,  '  a-holdin' 
up  a  hurry  job  while  they're  off  on  a  toot,'  he  says. 
'  We're  all  through  with  'em,'  he  says.  Aw,  he  talked 
to  me  meaner'n  a  dog.  *  Well,'  I  says,  *  give  us  the 
price  till  Saddy  night,'  I  says.  '  I'll  give  you  a  poke 
in  the  eye/  he  says,  '  if  you  don't  walk  out  o'  here/ 
he  says.  I  was  mad  then.  I  was.  I  jist  up  an'  told 
him  what  I  thought  of  him.  '  Looky  here/  I  says, 
<  you '  » 

"  You  needn't  repeat  what  you  said  to  Kearney," 
interrupted  Jimmy  hastily. 

"  Well,  all  right.  I  give  it  to  him  strong  an'  plenty, 
you  bet.  So — so  one  word  led  to  another,  an'  the 
first  thing  I  knowed  he  ketched  a  holt  of  me  an' 
throwed  me  downstairs.  You  know  how  steep  them 
stairs  is  to  the  paint  shop.  Well,  sir,  he  throwed  me 
down  'em.  I  like  to  broke  mun  neck." 

Jimmy  hardly  knew  what  to  say.  After  a  few  more 
flickers  of  the  eyes,  Mr.  Hyams  resumed  his  tale. 

"  So  from  there  I  went  over  to  Oesterle's.  Was 
it  Oesterle's  or  Ryan's?  Well,  anyway.  So  Oesterle, 
he  ordered  me  out.  So  I  went  over  to  Ryan's.  Yes, 
that's  right.  I  went  to  Oesterle's  first.  Tom  Haley 
was  tendin'  bar  at  Ryan's.  Soon's  he  seen  me,  he 
sung  out.  '  Nix.  No  more  here.  Beat  it.'  So  I  went 
to  Miller's.  Same  thing.  I  went  all  round.  I  even 


260  FOLKS    BACK    HOME 

went  to  Slattery's.  He  gimme  a  shell  o'  beer  and 
chased  me." 

This  was  familiar  ground  to  Jimmy.  In  all  the 
temperance  stories  it  tells  how  the  drunkard  is  made 
welcome  so  long  as  he  has  money  in  his  pocket, 
but  when  he  is  stripped  of  everything 

"  Well,"  interrupted  Mr.  Hyams,  "  I  don't  know's 
they  stripped  me  exactly.  I  guess  I  got  about  all  my 
clothes.  I  hain't  missed  nothin'  yet.  They  gotta  pro 
tect  themselves.  I  don't  blame  them;  I  blame  her" 

11 1  don't  understand." 

"  Why,  it's  as  plain  as  the  nose  on  your  face.  No 
offense,  you  understand.  They  was  two  weeks'  pay 
comin'  to  me  Saddy  night.  Are  you  right  sure  this 
is  Friday?  Well,  sir,  it  don't  seem  possible!  So — so 
I  was  goin'  to  pay  the  grocery  bill  an'  a  few  other 
little  things — me  an'  her  had  had  words  about  that 
the  last  pay  day — so  I  stopped  in  at  Oesterle's  to 
have  a  little  somepin'  first,  an'  they  was  quite  a 
crowd  around,  an' —  Th-n-n-n!  the  first  thing  I 
knowed  I  was  layin'  over  by  the  brick  yard,  or  mebby 
a  hundred  yards  this  side  the  brick  yard,  right  flat 
on  the  ground.  Yes,  sir,  right  smack  dab  on  the 
ground.  An'  not  a  sou  markee  in  mup  pocket.  So 
I  went  round  to  the  shop." 

He  checked  off  the  items  on  his  fingers. 

"  So  I  went  round  to  all  the  s'loons.  I  told  you 
that.  So  I  went  round  to  the  house.  I  told  you  that. 


THE  DAYS  OF  HIS  SEPARATION  261 
So  I  went  to  Miz  Funk's.  I  told  you  that.  So  there 
I  was.  No  place  to  go,  not  a  sou  markee  in  mup 
pocket,  an'  she's  been  all  round  an'  told  'em  not  to 
let  me  have  anything  more,  or  she'll  prosecute  'em. 
So,  thinks  I,  '  What'm  I  goin'  to  do?  '  So  I  walked 
around,  an'  walked  around.  'Shamed  to  go  to  any 
of  muf  Mends,  don't  ye  understand?  So  thinks  I, 
'  There's  Jimmy  Darling.  Him  an'  Het  used  to  be 
pretty  thick  one  time.  She  would  'a'  took  up  with 
him  if  he  hadn't  commenced  to  wearin'  his  hair  long.' 
So  I  seen  the  light.  So  I  knocked  on  the  door.  So — " 
His  voice  dwindled  into  a  feeble  smile,  which  he 
turned  on  Jimmy. 

"  You  want  me  to  go  to  her  and  intercede  for 
you?  " 

"  W'y,  yes,  that  might  not  be  a  bad  idy.  It's  git- 
tin*  pretty  late  though,  now.  To-morrow  will  do  as 
well." 

"  But  do  you  think  it  would  be  right  for  her  to 
take  you  back  unless  you  reformed?  Supposing  you 
should  go  to  drinking  again." 

"  Me?  Never.  Not  another  drop  passes  my  lips. 
Never  touch  it  again  the  longest  day  I  live.  W'y, 
look  what  it's  done  for  me.  You  know  me,  Jimmy. 
You  know  I'm  a  good  hand.  You  know  they  ain't  a 
neater,  prettier  striper  in  the  State  of  Ohio  than 
what  I  am  when  I'm  at  musself.  You're  a  pretty  good 
hand,  Jimmy,  but  you  ain't  nothin'  to  me  when  I'm  at 


262  FOLKS    BACK   HOME 

musself.  Ever  see  any  of  my  imitation  burl  walnut? 
I'm  a  Hickey  at  burl  walnut.  An'  Kearney  throwed 
me  out,  ears  over  apple  cart.  Was  it  Kearney?  No! 
It  wasn't  Kearney.  'Twas  Rum.  Rum  done  it,  Jim. 
Here  I  am,  on  the  hog,  not  a  sou  markee  in  mup 
pocket,  no  job,  wife  gone  back  on  me,  mother-in- 
law  says  she'll  mash  my  head  in  with  the  ax,  an' 
I  need  a  shave  the  worst  way,  an'  what  done  it? 
Rum  done  it.  My  pore  wife!  Jimmy,  when  I  think 
o'  what  that  pore  woman  has  underwent  for  my 
sake,  I  could  set  right  down  an'  cry,  I  could,  for 
a  fact,  all  jokes  aside.  I  could  set  right  down  and 
cry.  Nice  woman,  Jim.  Bully  woman  in  many  re 
spects.  Darn  shame  you  didn't  git  her.  You  would 
have,  too,  if  it  hadn't  of  be'n  for  your  wearin'  your 
hair  long.  I've  heard  her  say  so.  She's  got  her  good 
points,  Jim,  same  as  you  an'  me.  But,  Jimmy.  Was 
it  any  way  to  act?  Lockin'  up  the  house  on  me  that 
way?  An'  then  for  her  to  go  round  an'  tell  'em  not 
to  let  me  have  anything  or  she'll  prosecute  'em.  En 
tirely  unnecessary.  Utterly  uncalled  for.  Because  I've 
quit.  You  know  that,  Jim.  You're  my  witness  that 
I've  quit.  Lockin'  up  the  house  on  me,  an'  not  the 
scratch  of  a  pen  or  a  pencil.  No  note  under  the  door 
mat  to  say  where  the  key  was.  Nothin'.  Because  I 
looked,  Jimmy.  So  help  my  God,  I  looked  in  under 
that  door  mat;  if  I  looked  once  I  looked  twenty 
times.  Not  the  scratch  of  a  pen  or  pencil.  Nothin'. 


THE    DAYS    OF    HIS   SEPARATION      263 

An'  me  on  the  streets,  Jim.  Everybody  gone  back 
on  me,  all  but  Slattery,  an*  he  gimme  a  bowl  o'  suds 
an'  chased  me.  Friendless  an'  alone,  an'  needin'  a 
shave!  My  God,  it's  awful! 

No  one  to  love  me,  none  to  caress; 
No  one  to  pity  me,  no  one  to  bless. 
Fatherless,  motherless,  sadly  I  roam — 

See.  What  comes  after  that?  Funny  I  can't  think. 
Well,  anyways, 

Fatherless,  motherless,  sadly  I  roam, 
Tol-tde-rol-idle-dum,  'out  any  home. 

An'  what  done  it?  Rum  done  it,  Jim.  An'  I'm  done 
with  Rum,  henceforth  an'  f'revermore! " 

"  Brother  Hyams,  your  hand  upon  it!  " 

Hyams  looked  into  Jimmy's  face  with  brimming 
eyes,  and  grasped  his  hand. 

"  But,  my  brother,  you  cannot  get  the  victory  in 
your  own  strength.  Er — suppose  we  have  a  word  of 
prayer." 

There  are  some  who  presume  to  doubt  if  the  old- 
time  faith  still  lives  among  men.  It  does.  When 
Jimmy  Darling  poured  forth  his  fervent  supplication 
for  help  for  his  brother  sinner,  he  no  more  doubted 
that  the  Kind  Father,  the  Maker  and  Governor  of 
all  things,  both  in  heaven  and  earth,  hushed  the 
quiring  angels  that  he  might  the  better  hearken, 
than  he  doubted  that  the  tremulous,  broken  man  be- 


264  FOLKS    BACK    HOME 

side  him  heard  the  same  petition.  The  tragedy  of 
a  great  grief  struggling  to  express  itself  in  the 
drunkard's  slangy  babble  Jimmy  could  faintly  real 
ize;  perhaps  it  was  as  well  he  did  not  realize  its 
comedy.  It  is  not  so  much  godless  education  that 
undermines  belief  as  a  too  ticklish  sense  of  humor. 

When  they  had  risen  from  their  knees,  Hyams 
was  weeping.  He  shuddered  horribly. 

"There!  There!"  soothed  Jimmy,  laying  his  hand 
upon  his  penitent's  arm.  "  You're  all  unstrung." 

"  I  guess  you're  right.  I  am  unstrung.  But  you 
know  how  it  is,  Ji — Brother  Darling.  When  you  hit 
it  up  as  hard's  I  have,  you  feel  mighty  rocky  after 
wards.  I  ain't  never  going  to  touch  another  drop  of 
the  accursed  stuff.  D'ye  understand?  Not  another 
drop.  Well,  mebby  now  an'  ag'in —  No!  No!  Not 
another  drop,  if  it  kills  me.  Only — if  I  jist  had  a 
little  small  hooker  now  to " 

"  Hooker?  " 

"  Yes,  jist  a  little  small  hooker  to'  tone  me 
up " 

"Oh,  Dr.  Hooker's  Celebrated  Chil-e-na.  The 
very  thing!  Why,  yes.  That  ought  to  tone  you  up 
fine." 

He  rose  and  went  toward  the  cupboard.  Hyams' 
eyes  followed  him  with  an  insane  glitter. 

"  Let  me  see  what  it  says.  Hum-ah.  '  For  general 
debility ' " 


THE    DAYS    OF    HIS   SEPARATION      265 

"  Yes,  yes." 

"  '  Nervous  prostration ' ' 

"Oh-oh-oh!" 

"  '  That  sinking  feeling '  " 

"Aw,  Brother  Darling!  Give  it  to  me!  Aw,  pleasel 
Aw,  if  you  only  knowed  how  I  suffer!  Aw,  please, 
Brother  Jimmy!  Aw,  pleasel" 

He  ran  and  fell  on  his  knees,  and  clasped  Jimmy 
by  the  legs,  sobbing  and  pleading.  "Aw,  do!  Aw,  do 
give  it  to  me! " 

"  '  Dose,  two  tablespoonfuls  to  be  taken  before 
each  meal,  and ' ' 

Hyams  broke  down  and  cried  like  a  child.  It  was 
something  to  drink,  no  matter  what.  Indeed,  what 
had  led  him  to  go  back  to  the  paint  shop  had  been 
the  hope  that  he  might  get  to  steal  a  little  shellac 
to  quench  his  unnatural  thirst. 

"Aw,  God  bless  you,  Brother  Darling! "  For 
Jimmy  was  measuring  out  the  dose.  An  instant 
longer  and  Hyams  would  have  throttled  him  to  get 
it.  He  grabbed  the  cup  with  shaking  hands,  and 
swallowed  its  contents  with  a  gulp.  "  Nectar! "  he 
whispered  and  gave  a  contradictory  shudder.  Then 
he  looked  up  at  Jimmy  with  a  quizzical  air.  A  slow 
wink  crept  out,  but  finding  no  encouragement  in 
Jimmy's  innocent  face,  stole  shyly  back,  and  was 
as  if  it  had  not  been. 

"  Feel  any  better?  " 


266  FOLKS    BACK    HOME 

"  Oh,  a  heap.  A  heap.  Say!  That's  great  stuff." 

"  I  think  so,"  answered  the  unsuspecting  Mr. 
Darling.  "  I  find  it  beneficial.  I  take  it  regularly 
three  times  a  day." 

"  You  do,  eh?  " 

"  Yes,  and  when  I'm  exhausted  and  all  played  out 
it  does  me  a  wonderful  sight  of  good.  I  don't  know 
how  I'd  get  along  without  it." 

"  Yes,  I  can  understand  that." 

"  I'm  satisfied  it's  saved  me  from  many  a  hard 
spell  of  sickness.  I  buy  it  by  the  case  and  keep  it 
in  the  cellar." 

"In  the  cellar,  eh?" 

"  It's  a  vegetable  compound " 

"  Oh,  sure." 

"  Composed  of  roots  and  herbs,  discovered  by 
Isaiah  Hooker,  D.D.,  M.D.  He's  a  returned  medi 
cal  missionary,  you  know.  It  says  here:  '  Prepared  in 
a  suitable  vehicle.'  Now  that  always  puzzled  me.  I 
always  thought  a  vehicle  was  a  wagon  or  a  car- 
riage." 

"  Perfectly  correct  use  of  the  word,  Brother 
Darling.  It  went  down  my  throat  like  it  was  on 
wheels."  This  time  the  wink  came  boldly  forth. 
Jimmy  paid  no  heed.  When  a  man's  nerves  are  all 
unstrung,  it  doesn't  do  to  take  notice  of  every  little 
thing. 

"  You  think  it  did  you  good?  " 


THE    DAYS    OF    HIS   SEPARATION     267 

"  I  know  it  did.  One  more  would  fix  me  so's  I 
could  get  a  good  night's  rest.  Pour  me  out  another 
little  hooker,  won't  you,  Brother  Darling?  " 

"  Well,  I  don't  know.  It's  a  powerful  medicine, 
you  understand,  and  I'm  no  doctor." 

"  Why,  Brother  Darling,"  explained  Hyams. 
"  You  don't  suppose  a  saved  man  like  Brother 
Hooker  would  put  out  a  medicine  that  was  rank 
poison,  do  you?  Why,  certainly  not.  Certainly  not." 

The  second  dose  was  even  more  beneficial  than 
the  first,  and  Jimmy  returned  the  bottle  to  its  place 
with  an  easy  mind,  and  showed  Brother  Hyams 
where  he  was  to  sleep. 

Solitary  living  is  likely  to  be  plain,  not  to  say 
skimpy  living,  and  on  his  way  home  from  the  car 
riage  factory  the  next  evening,  Jimmy  stopped  in 
at  the  butcher's  and  the  grocer's.  If  Brother  Hyams 
was  to  be  made  a  useful  member  of  society  once 
more,  his  system  must  be  built  up  by  nourishing  food 
as  well  as  a  regular  course  of  Chil-e-na.  Mingled 
with  the  joy  over  one  sinner  that  repenteth  was  the 
anticipation  of  having  somebody  to  welcome  him 
with  lighted  lamps,  the  fires  going,  and  the  tea 
kettle  on. 

As  he  neared  his  corner,  quite  appropriately  he 
heard  the  tune  of  "Throw  Out  the  Life  Line." 
Could  it  be  possible?  It  was  even  so.  Brother  Hyams 


268  FOLKS    BACK    HOME 

was  singing  that  gospel  hymn,  rather  too  boister 
ously,  rather  too  slowly,  not  quite  in  tune,  but  sing 
ing,  "  Throw  Out  the  Life  Line."  Whose  was  that 
other  jarring  voice? 

There  were  people  gathered  about  his  gate.  Was 
anything  wrong?  He  heard  some  one  say,  "  Here's 
Mr.  Darling  now." 

"Well,  I  think  it's  about  timel "  he  heard  the 
voice  of  Mrs.  Pritchard  scold. 

"The  lives  scared  plumb  out  of  us.  It's  just  per 
fectly  awful!  I  would  of  went  in  myself,  only  I  have 
such  a  time  with  my  heart,  and  thinks  I " 

Jimmy  flung  open  the  sitting-room  door. 

"Cheese  it!  Cheese  it!"  a  voice  muttered  in  the 
gloom. 

"  '  Some  one  is  sinking  tooooo-dayeeeee.'  For  that 
sinking  feeling  take  Dr.  Hook —  Why,  hello,  Jim 
my,  old  boy!  How  are  you?  What's  the  best  word?  " 
Thus  Mr.  Hyams,  as  his  eyes  flickered  at  Jimmy's 
flaring  match.  The  other  man  got  up  awkwardly  as 
Jimmy  lighted  the  lamp.  Frowzy  old  Very  Dirty 
Smith  stood  revealed,  rightly  nicknamed. 

"  Why,  what  are  you  doing  in  my  house?  " 

"That's  all  right,  Ji— Brother  Darling,  I  should 
say.  Friend  o'  mine.  Shake  hands  with  Brother 
Smith,  Brother  Darling.  Singing  and  making  mel 
ody  in  our  hearts,  Brother  Darling,  singing  and 
making  mel —  Twas  this  way.  I  got  kind  o'  lone- 


THE    DAYS    OF    HIS    SEPARATION     269 

some.  So  I  seen  Brother  Smith  a-goin'  past.  So  I 
hollered  at  him.  So " 

"  You're  intoxicated." 

"Who?  Me?  Why,  Brother  Darling,  how  you 
talk!" 

"  Bringing  liquor  into  my  house " 

"  Who  brought  liquor  into  your  house?  Not  me. 
Brother  Smith,  did  you  bring  liquor  into  this  gentle 
man's  house?  Says  he  didn't  bring  no  liquor  in." 

"  After  your  solemn  promise  last  night  never  to 
touch  another  drop " 

"  Yes,  I  said  that.  I  meant  it  too! "  cried  Hyams 
with  tense  and  sudden  earnestness.  "  An'  who  set 
me  a-goin'  ag'in?  Hay?  Who  put  it  to  my  lips?  Hay? 
Who  was  it?" 

"Cheese  it!  Cheese  it!"  huskily  counseled  Very 
Dirty  Smith  out  of  one  corner  of  his  mouth,  as 
Hyams  thrust  his  chin  almost  in  Jimmy's  face,  who 
drew  back  stammering.  "  Why — why " 

"  You\ — you  hypocrite!  You  did.  Where'd  I  git 
my  liquor?  Out  o'  your  cellar.  In  the  case  over  by 
the  puttaters.  That's  where  I  got  it.  Where  you  keep 
it  so's  you  can  soak  it  all  by  yourself.  You  ain't  got 
the  manhood  to  stand  up  to  the  bar,  like  a  ge'l'man 
should.  You  gotta  sneak  it." 

"  I  never  had  a  drop  of  liquor  in  my  house!  "  cried 
Jimmy  hotly.  "  I  do  not  know  what  liquor  tastes 
like." 


270  FOLKS    BACK    HOME 

"  Oh,  you  don't,  hay?  You  don't,  hay?  Well,  any 
body  asts  you  what  liquor  tastes  like,  you  tell  'em 
it  tastes  like  Dr.  Hooker's  Celebrated  Chil-e-na, 
on'y  more  so." 

The  room  gave  a  sudden  dip  and  swung  dizzily. 
Jimmy  caught  a  chair  back  to  steady  himself. 
"  You  want  to  know  where  I  got  mul  load?  " 
For  answer,  Hyams  made  a  gesture  toward  the 
table,  where  stood  some  dozen  bottles  once  full  of 
the  great  vegetable  compound,  now  empty. 
'You  drank  all  that!"  gasped  Jimmy. 
"  Me  an'  Brother  Smith  here,  between  us." 
"  Why,  it  will  kill  you!  It's  a  powerful  drug!" 
"  You  kin  git  it  in  any  s'loon  twicet  as  powerful 
for   half   the    money.   Dollar   a   bottle!   Gee!   They 
soaked  you  for  fair.  Th-n-n-n!  "  snickered  Hyams. 
Then  he  rolled  up  His  eyes,  and  began  to  mimic  Jim 
my.  "  (  Help  our  dear  brother  to  overcome  this  ter 
rible  temptation,'  says  you,  an'  the  very  first  crack 
out  of  the  box  you  hand  me  out  a  snifter  of  the  oh- 
be-joyful.  You're  a  Hickey.  You  are,  for  a  fact." 

"  I  didn't  know — I  didn't  dream " 

"Come  off!  COME  OFF!" 

Hyams  leered  at  Jimmy,  but  something  in  those 
honest  eyes  made  him  shrug  his  shoulders  and  say: 
"  In  that  case,  Dr.  Hooker  is  the  '  greatest  discov 
erer  of  the  age.'  '  Why  so?  '  says  you.  Well,  I  tell 
you.  He  discovered  a  way  so's  a  prohibitionist  can 


THE  DAYS  OF  HIS  SEPARATION  271 
git  his  toddy  regular,  an'  nobody  find  it  out,  not  even 
himself  \  Well,  now  that  you  know,  suppose  you  join 
me  an'  muf  friend  here  in  a  social  glass  to  the  health 
of  Isaiah  Hooker,  D.D.  and  M.D.,  the  greatest  dis 
coverer  of  the  age."  He  leaned  over  and  lifted  a 
bottle  that  was  still  nearly  half  full. 

"No!"  cried  Jimmy,  fiercely  striking  the  flask, 
and  sending  it  hurtling  across  the  room,  where  it 
gurgled  itself  empty. 

"Ah!  What  did  you  go  an'  do  that  for?"  snarled 
Hyams.  "That's  the  last  they  is  in  the  house!" 

"  That's  the  last  there  ever  will  be  in  this  house!  " 

"  M-hm.  M-hm.  I  hear  you  say  so.  I've  said  the 
same  thing  musself,  many's  the  time.  Mebby  you'll 
find  it  ain't  so  easy  to  quit  it  after  all  these  years 
of  steady  soakin'.  Mebby  you'll  find  you're  jist  like 
me,  and  Brother  Smith  here,  an'  a  lot  more  round 
town  we  know.  You  gotta  have  it.  If  it  ain't  Rum 
open  an'  above  board,  it's  patent  medicine,  or  mor 
phine,  or  some  other  kind  of  dope  for  that  '  sinkin' 
feelin'.'  Some  folks  don't  need  it.  Others  has  to  have 
it,  one  way  or  another,  the  folks  that  ain't  quite 
right,  the  no-goods,  the  botch  jobs  of  men,  like  you 
an'  me,  an'  Brother  Very  Dirty  Smith  here." 

Jimmy's  flesh  crawled  at  the  thought  of  such  com 
panionship. 

"  You  folks  thinks  you're  a  whole  lot,  don't  ye?  " 
sneered  Hyams.  "  You  think  you're  smarter'n  God- 


272  FOLKS    BACK    HOME 

dlemighty.  You'll  show  Him  how  to  do.  A-ah!  You 
can't  learn  Him  nothin'.  He  knows  His  little  book. 
Don't  you  reckon  I  know  Rum's  makin'  a  mock  o' 
me?  It's  made  me  lose  my  job;  it's  lost  me  the  love 
of  my  wife,  an'  made  my  young  ones  so's  they're 
afraid  o'  me.  An'  I  can't  quit  it.  Why  not?  Why 
can't  I?  He  won't  let  me!  He's  got  it  in  for  me!" 
He  shook  his  fist  at  heaven  and  cursed  his  Maker. 

Jimmy  drew  in  a  horror-stricken  breath.  Smith 
fidgeted. 

"  He's  got  it  in  for  me.  He  wants  to  kill  me,  an' 
He  wants  to  fix  it  so's  no  girl  but  a  fool  girl  that 
He  wants  to  kill  too  will  ever  marry  a  drunkard. 
He's  got  it  in  for  you  too,  Jimmy  Darling,  let  me 
tell  you  that." 

"  Come  on,  Chris,"  muttered  Smith.  "  We  better 
be  movin'." 

"  In  a  minute.  Be  right  with  you.  I  wonder  where 
I  left  my  hat  at.  Summers  round  here.  Oh,  here- it 
is.  Yes,  sir.  He's  got  it  in  for  you  too.  He  don't  want 
none  o'  your  get.  You're  cracked,  that's  what  you 
are.  An'  He  knows  it.  An'  when  He  seen  'at  you  an' 
Het  was  goin'  together,  He  took  an'  put  it  in  your 
head  for  to  let  your  hair  grow  long.  She  wouldn't 
have  you.  No  other  girl  would  have  you.  He  fixed 
you  all  right.  All  the  no-goods  He  gives  the  notion 
that  they're  different.  That's  His  way  of  fixin'  them. 
What  He  wants  is  folks  that's  like  other  people.  An' 


THE    DAYS    OF    HIS    SEPARATION    273 

we  ain't.  You,  an*  me,  an'  Brother  Very  Dirty 
Smith." 

The  clock  ticked  loudly. 

"  Well/*  he  said,  and  crammed  his  hat  upon  his 
head,  and  started  for  the  door.  With  the  handle  in 
his  hand,  he  turned.  "  Brother  Darling,  I'm  obliged 
to  you  for  your  kind  hospitality,  but  seein's  the 
liquor  has  kind  o'  gin  out,  why " 

"  Where  are  you  going?  "  cried  Jimmy,  remem 
bering  that  the  man  was  homeless,  penniless,  and 
without  work. 

"To  hell!  Where  else?" 

He  slammed  the  door  behind  him.  Jimmy  heard 
the  two  shuffle  down  the  walk  and  out  the  gate.  He 
stood  dazed.  The  whole  fabric  of  his  life  had  been 
dissolved  in  ruins. 

He  a  Nazarite?  For  years  he  had  been  tippling 
steadily.  That  he  had  not  known  that  he  was  tippling 
might  excuse  his  guilt;  it  could  not  ablate  the  fact. 
It  could  not  loose  him  from  the  habit.  A  low  moan 
crowded  its  way  through  his  clinched  teeth.  No!  He 
could  not  yield  to  it  though  every  pang  that  flesh 
could  know  should  torture  him.  And  yet,  what  harm 
had  it  done  him?  He  had  said  it  did  him  good,  had 
proclaimed  it  to  the  world.  Like  enough  that  testi 
monial  of  his  was  even  now  making  secret  drunk 
ards.  He  would  warn  the  people.  But  who  would 
publish  the  warning? 


274  FOLKS    BACK   HOME 

At  any  rate  he  would  no  longer  bear  the  mark  of 
those  whom  God  would  destroy,  and  in  whose  veins 
He  injects  the  germs  of  sterility;  eccentrics,  trees 
whose  fruit  withereth,  without  fruit.  He  would  no 
longer  wear  the  badge  of  the  barren  fig  tree  cum 
bering  the  ground.  His  braids  seared  his  scalp,  as 
if  each  hair  had  been  a  white-hot  wire.  He  tore  them 
down,  and  as  the  shears  crunched  through  them,  a 
wild  elation  filled  his  soul. 

It  was  done  now!  It  could  not  be  undone. 

He  stepped  about  in  getting  his  supper  as  if  his 
feet  were  as  light  as  his  head  felt.  He  whistled  and 
hummed  an  air  he  had  not  thought  of  in  many  a  long 
year,  "  Villikins  and  his  Dinah."  He  used  to  sing 
that  when  he  was  courting  Hetty.  Supposing — just 
supposing — she  should  get  a  divorce  from  Chris,  and 
...  ah,  then  he  might  see  the  lamps  lighted  against 
his  coming  home.  The  tablecloth  would  gleam  at 
him  through  the  window  as  he  came  along  the  nar 
row  walk  by  the  side  of  the  house;  the  warm  and 
savory  air  would  gush  forth  upon  him  as  he  opened 
the  back  door.  She — she  would  come  to  kiss  him, 
and  say,  "  Well,  Jimmy,"  and  romping  children 
would  fling  themselves  upon  him,  hers  now,  his  very 
own  later.  It  was  not  too  late.  He  was  a  young  man 
yet. 

For  a  moment,  that  sadness  which  we  all  feel  in 
parting  from  the  past,  even  the  terrible  past,  came 


THE    DAYS    OF    HIS    SEPARATION     275 

over  him.  He  went  to  get  a  newspaper  wherein  to 
wrap  up  the  thick  braids  of  hair  and  put  them  away 
for  a  keepsake.  But  the  words  came  forth  from  the 
chambers  of  his  memory.  "And  he  shall  take  the  hair 
of  the  head  of  his  separation,  and  put  it  in  the  fire 
which  is  under  the  sacrifice  of  peace  offerings."  He 
lifted  the  stove  lid  and  crammed  the  sizzling  braids 
in  upon  the  coals. 

Poking  the  frying  steak  with  a  fork  in  one  hand, 
he  put  the  other  up  to  feel  of  the  jagged  locks  the 
shears  had  left.  He  chuckled  to  think  how  he  must 
look. 

"  Guess  I'll  have  to  take  in  the  barber  shop  to 
night/'  he  said  to  himself,  "  just  like  other  people." 
It  pleased  him,  so  he  said  it  again.  "  Just  like  other 
people."  And  took  up  the  gay  tune: 

Tooma-tooral-i-ooral,  i-ooral-ullay, 
Tooma-tooral-i-ooral,  i-ooral-ullay, 
Tooma-tooraH-oo — 

Whoa,  there,  coffeepot!  Want  to  put  the  fire  out, 
boiling  over  that  way? 

-ral,  i-ooral-ullay, 
Tooma-tooral-i-ooral,  i-ooral-ullay. 

The  days  of  his  separation  were  ended. 


THAT  ABOUT   LAURA   HORNBAKER 

MRS.    HORNBAKER   looked   out   of  her 
window    and    called    to    her    daughter: 
"  Laury,  there's  Dr.  Avery.  Run  out  and 
ask  him  how  Mrs.  Moots  is.  Don't  go  bareheaded. 
You   are  the   foolishest  child.   Here,   take   my  old 
broche  shawl." 

After  a  little,  Mrs.  Hornbaker  went  quietly  into 
the  front  room  and  curled  the  edge  of  the  window 
shade  just  enough  to  let  her  see  Laura  still  talking 
to  the  young  man  in  the  buggy.  He  was  carrying  on 
a  lively  conversation.  Every  time  the  little  brown 
mare  that  hated  to  stand  still  in  the  cold  would  start 
to  go,  he  would  stop  her.  Laura  had  her  shawl 
pulled  tight  over  her  head,  her  shoulders  hunched 
up,  and  her  hands  tucked  into  her  armpits.  She 
swayed  her  weight  from  one  foot  to  the  other.  It 
was  cold  in  the  parlor  and  once  or  twice  Mrs.  Horn- 
baker  started  for  the  warm  sitting  room,  but  it  was 
only  the  little  brown  mare  that  was  minded  to  end 
the  conversation.  Finally  the  doctor  seemed  to  come 
to  his  senses  and  note  that  Laura  was  shivering.  He 
ordered  her  into  the  house  and  drove  off,  looking 

276 


THAT  ABOUT  LAURA  HORNBAKER  277 

back  until  he  got  around  the  corner  of  Chillicothe 
Street.  Laura  ran  up  the  front  walk  with  a  fine  pre 
tense  of  not  watching  anybody  from  the  angle  of  her 
eye,  but  she  knew  as  well  as  Dr.  Avery  when  Lear's 
house  came  between  her  and  the  buggy. 

Mrs.  Hornbaker  seemed  not  to  have  stirred,  but 
Laura  knew  well  enough  that  her  mother  had  been 
watching,  and  her  mother  knew  that  she  knew.  Both 
played  out  their  little  comedy.  Laura  spread  her 
hands  to  the  stove  and  shuddered  "  Wooh!  "  before 
she  took  off  her  shawl  and  threw  it  on  the  ma 
chine.  Then,  as  she  drew  a  chair  up  to  the  stove 
to  warm  her  feet,  Mrs.  Hornbaker  hitched  her  rock 
ing  chair  over,  too,  merely  to  be  near  her  while  she 
talked. 

"  He  says  Abel  Horn's  going  to  play  the  hero  in 
'  The  Drummer  Boy  of  Shiloh.'  " 

"The  which ?" 

"  Why,  that  war  play  the  Company  K  boys  are 
getting  up.  He's  to  be  Lide  Burkhart's  lover." 

"  Huh! "  sneered  the  mother.  "  He  won't  have  to 
practice  up  much.  How  long's  he  be'n  goin'  with 
her  now?  The  idy  o*  him  playin'  hero!  He'll  play 
Whaley.  The  little  runt!  I  s'pose  he'll  wear  a  wig 
to  cover  up  his  baldness/' 

"  Oh,  well,  he's  Abel  Horn,  you  know,"  said 
Laura  philosophically.  "  It  is  his  nature  to.  You 
might  know  he'd  jam  in  to  be  first  and  foremost  in 


278  FOLKS    BACK    HOME 

everything.  I  believe  in  my  soul  he'd  ask  Gabriel  on 
the  Resurrection  Morning  to  lend  him  his  trumpet 
to  blow  on  a  while." 

"Laura!" 

"  He  would.  And  he'd  get  it,  too.  I  don't  know 
what  possesses  the  men  to  let  him  ride  over  'em  the 
way  he  does  unless  it  is  that  they  are  all  as 
gone  gumps  as  he  is." 

"  How'd  the  doctor  say  Mrs.  Moots  was?  " 

"  Why,  he  said  she  might  live  through  the  night." 

"  Mercy!  Why,  the  poor  thing!  " 

"Oh,  I  don't  know!"  answered  the  unfeeling 
Laura,  "  as  they's  any  call  to  pity  her.  She's  going 
where  there'll  be  no  Amzi  Moots.  I  should  think 
she'd  say,  '  Welcome  death ! '  after  living  with  that 
old  skinflint  for  eleven  years." 

"  Now,  Laury,  you  oughtn't  to  talk  that  way 
about  your  neighbors." 

"  Well,  ma,  you  know  as  well  as  I  do  that  he's  the 
meanest  man  in  Logan  County.  Dr.  Avery  says  that 
if  he  had  been  called  sooner  he  might  have  saved  her, 
but  he  says  she  don't  seem  to  have  any  vitality.  I 
told  him  she  hadn't  had  enough  to  eat  for  eleven 
years,  and  what  could  he  expect?  He  says  that 
Moots  tried  to  get  him  to  agree  that  the  whole 
thing,  medicines  and  all,  shouldn't  come  to  more 
than  fifteen  dollars." 

"Why,  Laura  Hornbaker!" 


THAT  ABOUT   LAURA   HORNBAKER  279 
"Ain't  he  the  stingiest?  Laws!  I  wouldn't  marry 
Amzi  Moots  if  he  was  the  last  man  on  earth! " 
"  You  like  Dr.  Avery  pretty  well,  don't  you?" 
Laura  could  not  have  heard  her,  for  she  went  right 
on:  "  Moots  won't  even  hire  anybody  to  cook  the 
victuals  or  help  wait  on  her  and  look  after  Luella. 
The  doctor  says  the  house  just  looks  like  distrac 
tion.  Mrs.  Lucius  Lybrand  was  in  yesterday  a  while, 
he  says.  He  wanted  Moots  to  hire  a  trained  nurse, 
but  he  says  the  man  looked  like  he  was  death-smit 
at  the  idea  of  spending  so  much  money." 

"  What  else  was  you  and  the  doctor  talking  about 
so  long?  " 

"  Oh,  he  was  telling  me  about  his  practice." 
"  I  guess  he  hain't  got  much  of  a  one." 
"  He  says  he'd  do  right  well  if  people  was  to  pay 
him  what  they  owed.  He  says  he'd  be  all  out  of  debt 
and  have  consid'able  over.  You  know  he  borrowed 
money  to  study  on  up  to  Cleveland.  He  says  there's 
more'n  three  hundred  dollars  of  his  outstanding.  He 
says  it  seems  like  people  wait  till  the  last  day  in  the 
afternoon  to  pay  the  doctor." 

"  Your  pa  says  it's  awful  hard  to  get  folks  to  settle 
up  their  grocery  bills,  too,"  sighed  Mrs.  Hornbaker, 
who  came  to  this  topic  with  the  vivid  interest  one 
has  in  a  chronic  ailment.  "  I  declare  I  don't  know 
what  we're  going  to  do.  I  don't  see  how  your  pa 
can  pay  off  that  mortgage  on  the  house.  Your  pa 


28o  FOLKS   BACK   HOME 

was  very  good  about  it.  He  didn't  urge  me  any.  .  .  . 
I  did  say  that  come  what  might,  let  go  what  must, 
I'd  never  put  a  mortgage  on  the  house  after  I 
bought  it  with  that  $3,400  that  pap  willed  me.  .  .  . 
But  when  he  was  so  pushed  for  money,  and  it  looked 
as  if  the  grocery  would  have  to  go  up,  I  just  kind 
of  had  to  let  him  borrow  that  $2,200  and  give  the 
mortgage  as  security.  .  .  .  Your  pa  was  very  good 
about  it,  though.  .  .  .  And  now  it's  as  much  as  he 
can  do  to  meet  the  interest.  .  .  .  And  if  they  was 
to  foreclose,  I  don't  know  what  on  earth  we'd  do. 
.  .  .  And  there's  that  note  of  Rosenthal's,  that'll  be 
comin'  due  before  long " 

"  Well,  I  just  get  real  provoked  at  pa  sometimes," 
burst  in  Laura.  "  He  won't  let  me  do  anything 
and " 

"  You  mustn't  talk  that  way  about  your  pa,"  re 
proved  Mrs.  Hornbaker.  "  You  know  he  don't  be 
lieve  in  girls  workin'  out.  Yes,  yes,  I  know  it  ain't 
the  same  as  goin*  into  somebody  else's  kitchen,  but 
he  thinks  it  is.  And  I  don't  know  what  I'd  do  with 
out  you,  now  that  I'm  so  poorly.  We'd  have  to  keep 
a  girl,  and  her  board  and  wages'd  come  to  more'n 
what  you  could  make.  And  laws!  I  don't  want  any 
of  'em  round  under  foot.  Lazy,  triflin'  things!" 

"  It  ain't  that,  ma,"  persisted  Laura.  "  It's  his  not 
applying  for  a  pension  when  he  might  just  as  well's 
not." 


THAT  ABOUT  LAURA  HORNBAKER  281 

"  Well,  Laury,  you  know  how  he  is  about  that. 
You  know  he  says  as  long  as  he's  able  to  work  he 
ain't  goin'  to  live  off  o'  charity." 

"  Tchk! "  clicked  Laura  in  despair.  "  I  do  think  a 
man  is  the  biggest  f-double-o-1.  Every  last  one  of 
them  has  got  some  cranky  notion  or  other  in  his 
head.  Why,  looky  here.  Old  man  Frizzell,  the  presi 
dent  of  the  National  Bank,  that  never  had  a  day's 
sickness  in  his  life,  and  never  went  a  step  nearer  to 
the  war  than  Camp  Chase,  drafted  at  that,  and  just 
wallerin'  in  money — drawin'  a  pension  just  the  same. 
And  here's  pa,  that  fought  all  through — I  declare  I 
just  get  heartsick  sometimes  when  I  see  him  down 
at  the  store  working  so  hard,  getting  up  them  bar 
rels  of  sugar " 

"Now,  I  told  him  to  let  Rote  do  that,"  inter 
rupted  her  mother. 

"  Yes.  Well.  You  get  Eurotus  Smith  to  do  any 
hard  work  if  you  can.  He's  another  one  of  your  men. 
Laziest  mortal  that  ever  drew  the  breath  of  life! 
I'm  just  going  to  take  charge  of  this  pension  busi 
ness  myself.  I'm  going  down  to  see  Mr.  Lovejoy 
about  it  to-morrow  morning,  and  when  it  comes 
to  having  pa  examined,  I'm  going  to  get  Dr.  Avery 
to  do  it  and  just  keep  at  pa  till  he  gives  in." 

"  I  don't  know;  your  pa  is  very  firm." 

'  You  mean,  he  can  be  mulish  like  all  the  men 
when  you  corner  'em,  and  they  know  they're  wrong 


282  FOLKS    BACK    HOME 

and  won't  give  in.  I'll  get  around  him  all  right.  You 
see  if  I  don't." 

"  I  s'pose  you  think  your  Dr.  Avery  is  jist  perfec 
tion,"  sniffed  Mrs.  Hornbaker. 

"  Oh,  hush  up  about  Dr.  Avery.  He's  as  big  a  fool 
as  the  rest  of  them,  if  all  was  known."  Yet  in  her 
heart — but  who  knows  what's  in  a  woman's  heart? 

There  was  a  silence,  and  then  Mrs.  Hornbaker, 
who  from  thinking  of  Dr.  Avery  had  gone  on  to 
thinking  of  Lucy  Moots,  said:  "  I  reckon  we'd  ought 
to  go  over  there  after  we  get  the  supper  dishes 
washed  up." 

"  Why,  what  are  you  talking  about?  "  demanded 
Laura,  sharply  turning  on  her  mother.  "  We  don't 
know  his  people  at  all." 

"  Why,  what  are  you  talking  about?  "  retorted  her 
mother.  "  I've  knowed  Lucy  Edwards  ever  since  she 
was  a  little  girl." 

"  Oh,"  said  Laura.  "  All  right." 

Laura  Hornbaker  and  her  mother  were  so  close 
akin  mentally  that  often  after  a  long  silence  one 
would  say  something  which  was  just  what  the  other 
was  thinking  of.  But  it  wasn't  so  this  time. 


II 

Two  months  after  Mrs.   Moots'  funeral,  Minuca 
Center  was  still  talking  about  the  way  Almeda  Ed- 


THAT  ABOUT  LAURA  HORNBAKER  283 

wards,  who  married  Jim  Hetherington  after  she 
couldn't  get  Amzi  Moots,  was  acting.  Word  had 
been  sent  to  her  at  six  in  the  morning  that  she  must 
come  right  away  if  she  wanted  to  see  her  sister  alive. 
She  got  to  the  house  at  half  past  ten;  she  said  she 
didn't  get  her  housework  done  before.  She  was  so 
sorry  she  had  not  seen  Lucy  alive,  and  wanted  to 
know  if  she  was  resigned  to  go,  and  if  she  had  said 
anything  about  that  cameo  pin  that  used  to  belong 
to  their  mother.  (Everybody  said  she  was  the  one 
that  ought  to  have  got  Moots;  then  there  would 
have  been  a  pair  of  them.)  Moots  wanted  her  to  take 
little  Luella  to  raise,  but  when  she  found  out  that 
Lucy  hadn't  left  her  the  cameo  pin,  she  wouldn't.  So 
Moots  got  an  old  woman  from  the  county  house  to 
look  after  the  child  and  take  care  of  the  house.  All 
she  cost  him  was  her  board  and  keep.  She  was  what 
they  called,  "  kind  of  be-addled,"  harmless  enough, 
though  when  anybody  knocked  at  the  door  she 
would  always  grab  up  the  poker  and  greet  the  vis 
itor  with,  "  You  let  me  alone  and  I'll  let  you  alone." 
It  made  Laura  feel  so  sorry  for  poor  little  Luella 
that  she  had  the  child  come  over  to  her  house  when 
there  was  no  school.  Luella  had  never  had  a  doll, 
and  when  Laura  gave  her  the  one  she  had  kept  from 
her  own  girlhood  days  Mrs.  Hornbaker  cried  to  see 
the  look  that  came  into  the  little  thing's  eyes  as  she 
took  it  into  her  arms  and  went  to  play  "  keep  house  " 


284  FOLKS    BACK    HOME 

out  in  the  grape  arbor  with  a  few  broken  pieces  of 
crockery. 

Mr.  Moots  always  came  after  her  and  asked  every 
time,  "  Has  she  been  a  bother  to  you?"  and  Laura 
always  told  him  she  was  more  of  a  comfort  than  a 
bother,  for  a  quieter  and  more  affectionate  child 
never  lived  than  Luella  Moots.  She  would  twine  her 
arms  around  Laura's  neck  and  say,  "  I  love  you  jist 
'e  same  as  if  you  was  my  own  ma.  I  woosht  you 
was  my  own  ma,  don't  you?  Oh,  looky,  Aunty  Horn- 
baker!  How  red  Wally's  gettin'  'round  her  ne.ck! 
Yes,  and  on  her  face,  too.  What  makes  you  get  so 
red,  Wally?" 

People  talked  about  it,  and  that  made  Laura  and 
her  mother  feel  a  little  uneasy,  but  what  could  they 
do?  They  couldn't  tell  Luella  she  mustn't  come  any 
more,  could  they?  It  would  break  her  heart,  and  be 
sides,  they  liked  to  have  her.  Mr.  Hornbaker  almost 
always  had  a  stick  of  candy  in  his  pocket  for  her, 
and  would  hold  her  by  the  hour  and  tell  her  stories 
about  a  little  curly  dog  named  Pino  he  had  when 
he  was  a  little  boy.  If  Luella  came,  then  her  father 
would  have  to  call  for  her.  Mrs.  Hornbaker  simply 
would  not  have  old  Jane  Ann  about  the  place.  Once 
she  came,  and  when  Mrs.  Hornbaker  went  to  the 
back  door,  old  Jane  Ann  grabbed  up  the  hatchet 
they  chopped  kindlings  with  and  muttered,  "  You 
let  me  alone  and  I'll  let  you  alone.  I  come  for 


THAT  ABOUT   LAURA   HORNBAKER  285 

Luella."  Mrs.  Hornbaker  didn't  get  over  it  all  that 
evening,  but  shook  like  she  had  a  hard  chill.  So 
Amzi  Moots  had  to  call  for  Luella,  and  folks  might 
talk  if  it  did  them  any  good. 

One  day  Mr.  Hornbaker  came  home  to  dinner 
with,  "  Who  do  you  s'pose  I  seen  a-prancin'  down 
Main  Street,  as  large  as  life,  all  diked  out  in  a  new 
suit  and  a  plug  hat  and  a  red  necktie,  steppin'  as 
high  as  a  blind  horse?  " 

"  Laws,  I  do'  know,"  said  his  wife.  "  Who?  " 

"Amzi  Moots!" 

"Good  land!  Oh,  pa,  you're  foolin' ! "  doubted 
Mrs.  Hornbaker. 

"  Amzi  Moots,  I  tell  you.  Head  up  and  tail  over 
the  dashboard.  He's  beginnin'  to  take  notice." 

"  He  better  let  his  poor  wife  get  good  and  cold 
first,"  observed  Laura,  somewhat  sourly. 

"  I  kind  o'  mistrust  he  has  his  eye  on  you,  Wally," 
teased  Mr.  Hornbaker,  using  the  nickname  little 
Luella  had  given  her. 

"Huh!  He  better  not." 

"  Well,  now,  Laura,  if  he  was  to  come  a-castin' 
sheep's  eyes  at  you " 

"Quit  now!" 

"  And  tellin'  you  how  much  he  loved  you,  and 
would  you  take  the  place  of  his  dear  compan 
ion " 

"  Quee-yut,  pa!" 


286  FOLKS    BACK    HOME 

"  And  be  a  mother  to  little  Luella  and  for  you 
to  not  pay  no  attention  to  that  young  whiffet  of  a 
Doc  Avery " 

"QUEE-YUT-TA!  Ma,  can't  you  make  him 
stop?  " 

"  Better  to  be  an  old  man's  darling  than  a  young 
man's  sla — "  In  the  playful  scuffle  that  followed  Mr. 
Hornbaker  got  a  crumb  crosswise  and  began  cough 
ing  so  hard  that  they  all  sobered  down  in  a  moment, 
fearful  that  his  old  wound  might  break  out.  Dr. 
Avery  had  told  mother  and  daughter,  after  the  ex 
amination,  that  Mr.  Hornbaker  would  have  to  be 
very  careful  of  himself. 

"O  dear  me!"  he  sighed,  after  he  had  got  his 
breath  back,  "  if  they  don't  hurry  up  with  that  there 
pension  o'  yours,  Laura,  I'm  afraid  your  poor  old 
pappy  won't  get  much  good  of  it." 

"  I  don't  think  you  ought  to  tease  me  about  old 
Moots  that  way." 

"  He's  not  old,  Laura,"  corrected  her  mother. 
"  He  told  me  he  had  all  his  own  teeth,  and  he's  not 
a  day  over  fifty-three.  I'm  sure  you  might  do  worse'n 
to  marry  a  steady  man  like  Mr.  Moots.  Well  off  he 
is,  too." 

"  M-yes,"  admitted  her  father.  "  Means  to  stay  so, 
too." 

"  And  little  Luella  just  loves  the  ground  you  walk 
on,"  persisted  her  mother. 


THAT  ABOUT  LAURA  HORNBAKER  287 

"  Good  land,  ma!  Do  you  think  I'd  marry  that  old 
coot?" 

"  Tut-tut,  Laura!  What  kind  of  talk  is  that  about 
your  neighbors?  It  ain't  pretty  a  bit.  If  he  comes  to 
see  you,  I  want  you  to  treat  him  like  a  lady." 

"  He's  no  lady;  he  ain't  hardly  a " 

"  You  know  what  I  mean.  Now  I  want  you  to 
behave  yourself." 

That  very  evening  who  should  appear  but  Mr. 
Moots  in  all  the  splendor  described  by  Mr.  Horn- 
baker,  leading  little  Luella  by  the  hand  and  inquir 
ing  if  Miss  Hornbaker  would  not  be  pleased  to  step 
down  to  Plotner's  with  them  and  partake  of  some 
ice  cream?  Mr.  Hornbaker's  jaw  dropped,  and  his 
nose  glasses  fell  off,  but  Mrs.  Hornbaker  was  as  cool 
as  a  cucumber  and  made  answer:  "  Why,  yes.  Laury, 
go  get  your  things  on,"  before  that  young  woman 
could  say  aye,  yes,  or  no.  She  gave  one  rebellious 
look  at  her  mother  and  then  consented  for  the  sake 
of  little  Luella. 

Mr.  Hornbaker  waited  till  he  heard  the  gate  latch 
click  behind  them,  and  then  he  said,  "  Well,  if  that 
don't  beat  the  Dutch!" 

"  I  don't  see  anything  strange  in  Laury's  being 
asked  out,"  replied  Mrs.  Hornbaker  primly.  * 

"  Why,  of  course  not,  but  Amzi  Moots  buyin'  ice 
cream!  G  for  jerks!  And  yit  they  talk  about  the  age 
o'  miracles  a-bein'  past !  " 


288  FOLKS    BACK    HOME 

Laura  met  Dr.  Avery  just  outside  Plotner's,  and, 
as  she  told  her  mother  afterwards,  she  thought  she 
would  sink  through  the  sidewalk.  Her  mother  said 
she  didn't  see  why.  Dr.  Avery  was  abashed,  too;  it 
hadn't  occurred  to  him  that  Moots  might  be  in  the 
running.  He  hadn't  recovered  his  self-respect  when 
he  went  into  Josh  Riddle's  a  little  later  to  buy  a 
cigar.  Josh  said:  "Aha!  I  see  old  Moots  is  cuttin' 
you  out,  Doc." 

"  Cuttin'  me  out  with  who? "  Dr.  Avery  asked, 
with  apparent  indifference. 

"  Why,  Laura  Hornbaker.  I  seen  Moots  takin' 
her  and  his  little  girl  into  Plotner's  a  while  ago  to 
treat  'em  to  ice  cream.  I  reckon  they  had  one  dish 
an'  three  spoons." 

The  physician  said,  "  Huh!  "  and  walked  out  with 
much  dignity.  He  did  not  choose  to  continue  the 
conversation.  Josh  winked  at  the  two  Longenecker 
boys,  who  had  stopped  playing  the  mandolin  when 
Josh  went  behind  the  counter.  It  was  all  over  Mi- 
nuca  Center  the  next  day  about  Moots  cutting  Doc 
Avery  out.  Emerson  may  be  correct  about  all  the 
world  loving  the  lover,  but  at  the  Center  it  was  the 
best  "  rig  "  you  could  get  on  a  fellow  to  find  out 
that  he  was  in  love. 

Mr.  Moots,  having  made  a  beginning,  saw  no 
need  of  making  an  ending  just  yet.  He  took  her  to 
"  East  Lynne  "  and  the  Mrs.  H.  M.  Smith  concert 


THAT  ABOUT  LAURA  HORNBAKER  289 

company.  He  told  her  he  thought  she  sang  full  as 
well  as  Mrs.  Smith.  Laura  had  taken  three  terms  of 
Professor  Minetti,  and  was  the  only  paid  member  of 
Center  Street  M.  E.  choir.  She  got  $50  a  year,  and 
a  dollar  for  every  funeral.  Mr.  Moots  appreciated 
good  music.  Almost  his  only  weakness  was  for  "  The 
Bluebells  of  Scotland."  Once  he  cried  when  she  sang 
it.  It  put  him  so  in  mind  of  his  mother.  It  was  such 
a  favorite  of  hers.  To  tell  the  truth,  the  worst  thing 
about  Moots  was  his  appalling  stinginess,  and  he 
seemed  to  have  laid  that  aside  as  one  puts  off  a 
garment.  When  Dr.  Avery  tried  to  outstay  him,  it 
was  always  Mr.  Moots  that  asked  if  the  doctor 
would  not  favor  the  company  with  a  little  music.  He 
told  Laura  he  thought  the  doctor  had  a  right  nice 
tenor  voice,  light,  of  course,  but,  my!  how  sweet! 
Sometimes  you'd  think  it  was  a  lady  singing.  Mr. 
Moots  sang  bass  himself. 

He  was  not  obtrusive  in  his  courtship,  only  per 
sistent.  He  was  thoroughly  dependable.  From  being 
resigned  to  his  coming,  Laura  grew  to  expect  it 
and  to  look  forward  to  a  day  when  a  question  should 
be  asked  of  her  by  him. 

"  What  shall  I  do?  What  shall  I  do?  "  she  asked 
of  her  mother. 

"  Why,  Laury,  child,"  her  mother  answered,  "  I 
don't  see  as  there's  any  call  for  you  to  do  anything. 
Has  he  said  anything  yet?" 


290  FOLKS    BACK    HOME 

"  Well,  no;  nothing  in  particular.  He  kind  o'  hints 
about  getting  his  house  repainted  and  papered,  and 
what  color  had  he  better  have  it,  and  how  lonesome 
it  is  for  Luella  with  nobody  to  take  care  of  her  but 
old  Jane  Ann,  and  how  fond  Luella  is  of  me  and — 
and  all  like  that." 

"  Nothin'  more'n  hintin',  I  s'pose?  " 

"  No,  but  it's  pretty  plain  hinting." 

"  He's  never  asked  you  right  out  if  you'd  be  a 
mother  to  Luella,  has  he?  " 

"  Not  right  out." 

"  Guess  you  better  wait  till  he  does.  Doctor  said 
anything?  " 

"  No'm;  nothing  in  particular.  He  kind  o*  hints, 
too.  Says  how  lonesome  he  is." 

"  Why,  he's  got  a  mother  and  a  sister." 

"Yes;  but  he  says  that's  different." 

"  Does,  eh?  Ain't  asked  you  if  you'd  be  his  com 
panion?  No;  I  s'pose  not." 

"  Not  yet."  There  was  a  long  silence.  "  He  says 
collections  are  so  bad." 

This  was  like  speaking  of  indigestion  to  a  dys 
peptic.  "  Laws!  I  don't  know  what  will  become  of 
us.  There's  that  mortgage  and  that  note  of  Rosen- 
thal's,  the  wholesale  man.  Mr.  Lovejoy  say  why  the 
pension  didn't  come?" 

"  He  says  there  is  always  more  or  less  delay  about 
such  things.  So  much  red  tape,  he  says." 


THAT  ABOUT  LAURA  HORNBAKER  291 

"  Don't  you  like  Mr.  Moots?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  kind  o'." 

"  Your  pa  says  he  guesses  Dr.  Avery  was  pretty 
gay  when  he  was  up  to  Cleveland  studying  medi 
cine." 

A  long  pause. 

"  Well,  ma,  I  tell  you  what.  If  I  marry  that  old 
skeezicks,  I'm  going  to  have  ten  dollars  a  week  to 
run  the  house  on.  That's  got  to  be  in  black  and 
white.  Now.  He  ain't  going  to  starve  me  to  death." 

Though  she  knew  the  question  was  coming,  when 
it  did  come,  she  was  speechless.  At  four-and-twenty 
it  is  hard  to  let  the  head  rule  the  heart.  Maybe,  after 
all,  the  heart  has  the  more  wisdom  at  that  age.  Mr. 
Moots  was  very  nice  about  it.  He  said  she  might 
want  to  think  it  over.  As  she  still  sat  silent,  he  went 
on  to  tell  her  that  he  had  happened  into  the  bank 
the  other  day  and  had  learned  about  the  mortgage. 
While  he  knew  that  nothing  could  make  up  for  the 
loss  of  such  a  daughter — though  it  wouldn't  be  los 
ing  her,  because  she  would  be  only  four  squares 
away  from  them — still,  it  would  be  a  comfort  to  her 
pa  and  ma  to  know  that  their  home  was  safe  and 
that  their  daughter  had  saved  it  for  them.  And  then, 
as  a  man  who  has  looked  too  long  over  a  precipice 
casts  himself  headlong,  she  said  "  Yes,"  and  he 
kissed  her. 

After  he  had  gone  she  said  to  her  mother:  "  I  hope 


292  FOLKS    BACK    HOME 

you're  satisfied  now/'  and  ran  up  to  her  room.  Her 
mother  followed  and  found  her  crying.  She  stroked 
the  girl's  hair  and  tried  to  tell  her  how  well  she  had 
done;  the  doctor  hadn't  asked  her,  anyway.  Maybe 
he  hadn't  meant  to;  from  all  she  could  learn  he  was 
pretty  wild,  and  Mr.  Moots  was  a  good,  steady  man, 
and 

"Oh,  hush  up!"  snapped  Laura.  "You  don't 
think  I'm  going  to  back  out  of  it  now.  I  want  to  be 
alone." 

"What's  the  matter  with  Wally? "  asked  Mr. 
Hornbaker  when  his  wife  came  downstairs. 

"  Mr.  Moots  has  asked  her  and  she  told  him  *  Yes.' 
She's  kind  of  unstrung,  I  guess." 

Mr.  Hornbaker  looked  troubled.  "  I  thought  her 
and  the  doctor  was  all  so  thick." 

"  Oh,  the  doctor!  I  guess  she'd  find  when  it  come 
to  payin'  the  meat  man  the  doctor  wouldn't  be  much 
account.  He's  head  over  heels  in  debt  now,  and 
his  mother  and  sister  to  keep.  Love's  a  nice  thing 
in  the  story  books,  but  what's  wanted  is  a  good  pro 
vider." 

"  Amzi  Moots  ain't  noways  celebrated  for  bein' 
that,"  Mr.  Hornbaker  observed. 

"  He'll  find  Laura's  no  Lucy  Edwards,  weak  as 
water.  She'll  spunk  up  to  him.  She  can  manage  him. 
I  don't  think  much  o'  young  doctors  anyways.  They 
know  too  much  about  people's  insides,  and  I  don't 


THAT  ABOUT  LAURA  HORNBAKER  293 

think  it's  very  nice.  Rob  graves  and  cut  folks  up  is 
all  they  like  to  do.  Then  George  never  goes  to 
church.  And  you  said  yourself  he  was  pretty  gay 
when  he  was  up  to  Cleveland." 

"  Oh,  get  out!  I  didn't,  either.  No  more'n  what 
any  fellow  is.  They  ain't  a  speck  of  onriness  in 
George  Avery.  Why  look  how  nice  he  is  to  his 
mother  and  his  sister,  and  how  hard  he  has  worked 
to  get  himself  ahead.  Why,  he  was  the  honor  man 
of  his  class,  and  he's  the  best  doctor  in  Minuca 
Center,  young  as  he  is.  Why,  he's  the  pick  o'  the 
town." 

"Huh!"  doubted  Mrs.  Hornbaker.  "Mr.  Moots 
has  bought  the  mortgage  and  is  going  to  give  it  to 
Laury  for  a  wedding  present." 

Mr.  Hornbaker  was  dumb. 

The  next  evening  after  that,  Laura  came  in  from 
the  side  porch  all  excited.  "  Mother! "  she  gasped. 
"  There's  George  in  the  buggy,  and  I  do  believe 
he's  coming  to  take  me  out  riding!  " 

"  Well,  honey,"  said  her  mother  placidly,  "  you'll 
just  have  to  ask  him  to  excuse  you." 

"  But  what'll  I  tell  him  if  he  asks  me  why  not?  " 

"  Why,  tell  him  you're  engaged  to  be  married  to 
Mr.  Moots." 

"  O  mother!  I  can't,  I  can't." 

"  Well,  Laury,  you'll  have  to.  It's  so,  and  it'll  have 
to  be  known  some  time.  Might  as  well  be  now  as 


294  FOLKS    BACK    HOME 

any  other  time.  Tell  him — now,  don't  get  to  cryin' 

and  go  in  there  with  your  eyes  as  red  as  Pharaoh's." 

Being  in  the  sitting  room,  which  was  next  to  the 
parlor,  Mrs.  Hornbaker  could  not  help  hearing  Dr. 
Avery  when  he  got  to  talking  loud  and  excited. 

"  You  sold  yourself!  You  sold  yourself!  That's 
what  you  did!  "  he  cried.  "  Oh,  you  are  just  like  the 
rest  of  them.  Lead  a  fellow  on  to  think  they're  an 
gels  out  of  heaven  and  then  sell  out  to  the  highest 
bidder.  And  I  was  going  to  ask  you  to  be —  Do 
you  know  what  you  are?  I  know.  I  know  what  you 
are.  You're  just  as  bad  as  Liz  Donheimer.  That's 
all  she " 

Mrs.  Hornbaker  flung  the  door  open.  "  You 
get!"  she  menaced.  "You  get  right  out  of  that 
door!  Right  now!  You  dare  to  talk  to  my  daughter 
that  way!  You  dare!  Compare  her  to  such  a  creature! 
If  you  ever  open  your  head  to  speak  to  Laura  again, 
I'll  have  your  horsewhipped.  Don't  you  talk  to  me! 
You — "  She  was  so  choked  with  rage  she  could  say 
no  more,  but  advanced  toward  him,  her  forefinger 
like  a  pistol.  He  backed  out  of  the  house  and  down 
the  front  walk.  Two  or  three  people  passing  stopped 
to  listen  and  to  look.  "  You  ever  speak  to  her  again, 
and  I'll  have  you  horsewhipped!"  she  shouted  as 
the  humbled  physician  drove  off. 

"  What's  the  matter,  Mrs.  Hornbaker?  What  did 
he  do?  "  asked  Josh  Riddle. 


THAT  ABOUT  LAURA  HORNBAKER  295 

"Oh,  go  on  about  your  business!"  she  snapped 
and  went  into  the  house. 

"  Now  you  see,"  she  said  to  Laura,  "  now  you  see 
what  kind  of  a  man  your  doctor  is.  Don't  you  mind 
saying  to  me  that  he  was  as  big  a  fool  as  the  rest, 
if  all  was  known?  Well,  now  you  know." 

"  But  it's  so,  mother,"  sobbed  Laura.  "  I — I  am 
what  he  said  I  was." 

"  O  Laura,  Laura,  you're  enough  to  try  the  pa 
tience  of  a  saint." 

Ill 

That  winter  the  Company  K  boys  got  up  the  can 
tata  of  "  Esther,  the  Beautiful  Queen."  It  was  not 
able  for  many  things,  not  the  least  being  that  for 
once  there  was  something  going  on  that  Abel  Horn 
was  not  head  man  in.  Mordecai,  the  leading  part,  is 
written  for  a  tenor,  and  Abel  sang  bass.  He  finally 
consented  to  play  Haman,  with  the  stipulation  that 
he  might  introduce  "  The  Heart  Bowed  Down." 
Charley  Pope,  who  got  the  whole  thing  up  and 
played  the  piano,  said,  "  All  right."  The  first  night 
— they  gave  it  two  nights  to  crowded  houses,  be 
cause  it  was  scriptural — the  first  night,  Abel  cleared 
his  throat,  swelled  out  his  chest,  and  took  the  cen 
ter  of  the  stage,  but  Charley  Pope  never  let  on.  He 
went  right  ahead  with  the  music  cue  for  something 
else,  and  the  others  had  to  go  on  and  Abel  was 


296  FOLKS    BACK   HOME 

crowded  back.  He  glared  at  Charley  all  the  time  he 
was  on,  but  Charley  never  saw  him.  He  waited  for 
Charley  after  the  curtain  came  down,  but  that  act 
Charley  did  not  go  back.  He  sat  on  the  piano  stool, 
chewing  his  jaws  and  occasionally  smiling  a  very 
dry  smile.  Everybody  else  in  Melodeon  Hall  saw 
Abel  pull  the  curtain  back  and  beckon  to  Charley. 
Everybody  else  wondered  what  for.  After  the  per 
formance  he  declared  to  Abel  that  he  had  mislaid 
the  music  for  the  introduced  number. 

"  Aw,  well,  now,  looky  here,"  said  Abel,  "  that's 
too  thin.  You've  played  that  for  me  too  many  times 
to  need  the  notes.  Anyhow,  it's  a  simple  thing,  just 
tum-ty-tum,  TUM-ty-tum,  tum-ty-tum,  TUM-ty- 
tum." 

"  That's  all  right,"  Charley  told  him.  "I  ain't 
takin'  no  chances  in  a  reg'lar  opera.  I  got  to  have 
the  score  before  me." 

"  Well,  I'll  see  'at  you  have  it  to-morrow  night. 

I'll  look  out  for  that.  It  won't  do  to  disappoint  the 

if 

All  right,"  said  Charley,  and  clapped  his  hands. 
"Ladies,  attention,  please!  Miss  Harmount,  will  you 
— to-morrow  night —  Attention,  please.  To-morrow 
night,  won't  you  all  please  remember  where  it  goes, 
'  la-lull-la-lee/  that  the  altos  have  A  flat  against  the 
sopranos'  B  flat?  Some  of  you  to-night — I  wish 
you'd  go  over  it  now.  No,  it's  '  la-lull-la-lee.'  Once 


THAT  ABOUT  LAURA  HORNBAKER  297 

again.  That's  all  right.  Remember  that  to-morrow 
night.  Oh,  fine!  Went  fine!  Yes,  yes,  Abel,  run  along 
now.  I  heard  you." 

The  next  night  Abel  cleared  his  throat,  swelled  his 
chest,  took  the  center  of  the  stage,  and — Charley 
Pope  went  right  on.  The  people  wondered  what 
made  all  the  Persians  snicker  so.  Even  the  heart 
broken  Jews  were  on  the  broad  grin.  Abel  glared 
savagely  at  the  musical  director.  After  the  per 
formance  he  wanted  to  argue  with  Charley,  who 
brusquely  said,  "Aw,  go  to  grass!  Where's  Josh 
Riddle?  Say,  Josh,  tell  me  that  about  Laura  Horn- 
baker." 

The  Company  K  boys  had  asked  Laura  to  play 
Esther  because  she  looked  the  part  and  had  such 
a  lovely  voice.  They  had  wanted  Dr.  Avery  to  be 
Mordecai,  but  knowing  what  had  happened,  were 
obliged  to  take  Frank  Hutsinpillar,  who  was  even 
more  stupid  than  the  run  of  tenors,  if  such  a  thing 
can  be.  Even  the  indefatigable  Charley  Pope  could 
not  hammer  the  music  into  his  head,  and  as  an  actor 
he  promised  to  be  awful.  Just  the  week  before  the 
production  he  got  mad  about  something  and  backed 
out.  It  looked  as  if  the  whole  thing  would  have  to 
be  given  up  unless  it  could  be  arranged  for  Dr. 
Avery  to  sing  the  part.  Charley  Pope  had  gone  over 
it  with  him,  and  was  sure  he  could  do  it  if —  The 
committee  wanted  Josh  Riddle  to  negotiate  the 


298  FOLKS    BACK    HOME 

transaction,  but  remembering  how  he  had  been  told 
to  go  on  about  his  business,  he  enthusiastically  de 
clined.  Then  they  put  the  job  off  on  Charley  Pope. 
He  assumed  such  a  plunged-in-a-gulf-of-dark-de- 
spair  expression  that  Mrs.  Hornbaker  felt  sorry  for 
the  poor  man,  and  consented  to  let  Laura  sing  with 
Dr.  Avery  after  Charley  had  shown  her  in  the  Bible 
that  Mordecai  was  only  Esther's  uncle.  Charley  went 
away  radiant  with  hope  and  devising  stage  busi 
ness  for  Mordecai  that  should  be  the  limit  of  avun 
cular  affection,  while  Mrs.  Hornbaker  comfortably 
reflected  that  Mr.  Moots,  from  being  Laura's  at 
tendant  at  the  rehearsals,  had  graduated  into  the 
chorus.  He  could  keep  an  eye  on  things,  and  besides, 
she  was  going  to  marry  him  in  the  month. 

Laura  never  looked  at  the  doctor  during  the  re 
hearsals,  although  they  had  to  stand  side  by  side 
to  sing  their  duets.  Once  she  dropped  her  score,  and 
as  he  picked  it  up  and  gave  it  to  her  their  hands 
touched.  Both  of  them  lost  their  breath  control  for 
a  few  bars. 

The  men  hired  their  costumes  from  Columbus;  the 
girls  made  their  own.  Abel  Horn  being  so  short, 
a  deep  tuck  had  to  be  taken  all  around  in  his  robe. 
The  first  dress  rehearsal  he  had  to  go  around  hold 
ing  his  gown  up  in  front  of  him,  so  that  he  should 
not  step  on  it.  When  he  let  go  of  it  to  hold  up  both 
hands  to  salute  the  king,  it  looked  as  if  he  were  play- 


THAT  ABOUT  LAURA  HORNBAKER  299 

ing  "  Ring-around  a-rosy,  squat  upon  a  posy."  Mr. 
Moots  had  a  long  yellow  robe  with  wide  sleeves, 
and  a  tall,  peaked  hat,  with  a  turban  wound  round 
it.  It  troubled  Laura's  conscience  that  she  could  not 
look  at  him  without  wanting  to  laugh.  He  was  to 
be  her  husband  in  three  weeks,  and  a  wife  ought  to 
respect  her  husband,  but  still 

She  and  Mordecai  had  to  act  out  their  parts  that 
night.  She  had  dreaded  it,  but  when  he  came  on  in 
his  somber  robes  and  flowing  gray  beard,  carrying 
his  long  staff  and  looking  so  majestic,  he  seemed 
quite  another  person. 

"  Now  you  stroke  her  hair,"  said  Charley  Pope. 
"  Tum-ty-tum.  Now  you  kiss  her  forehead."  The 
chorus  giggled  hysterically.  Rat-tat-tat!  went  Char 
ley's  stick.  "  Ladies  and  gentlemen  of  the  chorus 
will  please  preserve  order.  A  leetle — a  leetle  more 
so,  doctor,"  said  Charley.  "  Now  again,  please. 
That's  better.  That's  good.  Now  the  look,  Miss 
Hornbaker.  Ah,  that's  elegant.  Now:  *  Go  thou  unto 
the  king.'  Your  cue,  doctor." 

The  chorus  applauded  the  acting.  They  did  not 
sense  the  tempest  that  swept  over  the  two.  Mad 
dened  by  the  contact  of  her  bare  arms,  Dr.  Avery 
forgot  himself.  The  chorus  could  not  hear  him  mut 
ter:  "  I  love  you!  I  love  you!  O  my  God,  how  I 
love  you!"  nor  feel  the  thrill  of  passion  that  quiv 
ered  in  his  hand  as  it  passed  over  her  streaming 


3oo  FOLKS    BACK    HOME 

hair.  But  she  did.  For  them  the  look  she  turned  on 
Mordecai  was  but  simulation;  for  her,  it  was — oh, 
what  ineffable  longing! 

Her  conscience  made  her  more  than  commonly 
gracious  to  Mr.  Moots  as  they  walked  home  that 
night.  The  red  blood  burned  her  face  when  she  re 
called  the  rehearsal.  But  she  lingered  over  it  in  spite 
of  herself.  Still,  when  she  met  Dr.  Avery  in  the 
street  next  day  and  bowed  to  him — she  could  do 
no  less — she  passed  on,  though  she  could  see  that 
he  made  as  if  to  stop,  and  she  felt  in  her  back  that 
he  had  turned  to  look  after  her.  She  dreaded  the 
first  performance,  and  yet  she  longed  for  it,  longed 
to  thrill  under  the  touch  of  his  hand  on  her  hair. 
Would  he  say  again — but,  no,  no,  she  must  not  think 
of  that. 

IV 

Melodeon  Hall  was  on  the  third  floor.  The  tiny 
dressing  rooms  off  the  wings  were  enough  for  only 
a  few  of  the  principals.  The  others  had  to  dress  with 
the  chorus  in  the  rooms  on  the  second  floor,  ladies 
in  Judge  Rodehaver's  law  office,  men  in  Henry  Mil 
ler's.  The  hall  between  had  a  front  stair  on  Columbus 
Street  and  a  back  stair,  leading  up  to  the  stage  from 
Mad  River  Street.  The  offices  were  locked  up  before 
the  performance  so  nobody  could  get  in  to  steal  the 
street  clothes. 


THAT  ABOUT  LAURA  HORNBAKER  301 

Of  the  production  of  the  Logan  County  Republican 
said:  "  We  predict  a  glowing  future  for  Minuca  Cen 
ter's  talented  young  cantatrice,  Miss  Laura  Horn- 
baker,  who  took  the  part  of  Esther.  She  was  indeed 
queenly  in  her  every  act  and  move  and  added  to  her 
personal  charms  that  of  a  loud  and  beautiful  voice 
which  has  been  trained  for  three  terms  by  our 
esteemed  fellow-townsman,  Prof.  Vincent  Minetti, 
the  accomplished  organist  of  St.  Bridget's  R.  C. 
Church." 

The  Examiner,  which  came  out  one  day  later,  and 
ought  to  have  had  the  news  feature  of  the  produc 
tion,  but  didn't,  said:  "  Miss  Laura  Hornbaker,  who 
assumed  the  role  of  Queen  Esther,  sang  the  morceaux 
allotted  to  her  with  sweetness  and  with  power.  Her 
staccato  passages  were  given  with  great  purity  and 
clearness,  and  both  the  coloratura  and  the  legato 
movements  were  worthy  of  her  excellent  maestro,  a 
true  exponent  of  the  old  Italian  school  of  bel  canto; 
we  refer  to  our  genial  fellow-townsman,  Prof.  Vin 
cent  Minetti,  the  accomplished  organist  of  St.  Brid 
get's  R.  C.  Church.  Miss  Hornbaker  was  especially 
fine  in  the  scenes  with  Mordecai,  ably  portrayed  by 
Dr.  George  P.  Avery." 

Hannigan  wrote  that  himself.  When  he  went 
down  with  Professor  Minetti  to  Slattery's  between 
the  acts  he  was  already  at  the  stage  where  the  Eng 
lish  language  seemed  to  him  utterly  inadequate  as 


302  FOLKS    BACK    HOME 

a  means  of  expression.  Minetti  filled  him  up  with 
musical  phrases  and  other  things,  and  this  may  ex 
plain  how  the  news  feature  got  nothing  except  this: 
"  But  for  the  unfortunate  contretemps  on  the  con 
cluding  evening,  the  whole  event  reflected  great 
credit  on  the  musical  abilities  of  our  home  talent." 

The  morning  after  the  first  night  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Hornbaker  had  meant  to  let  Laura  sleep  late,  but 
when  the  postman  brought  the  letter  announcing 
that  at  last  the  pension  had  been  granted  with  back 
pay  amounting  to  $2,600,  they  had  to  waken  her  and 
tell  her  the  good  news. 

"O  Laura!  The  house  is  saved!  the  house  is 
saved!  "  cried  Mrs.  Hornbaker,  the  tears  running 
down  her  face.  "  And  your  pa  can  pay  off  Rosen- 
thai  now.  Oh!  I  am  so  happy!" 

"The  house  is  saved,  anyhow,  isn't  it?"  asked 
Laura,  still  a  little  dull  with  sleep. 

"  I  mean  if  anything  should  happen." 

If  anything  should  happen 

Mr.  Hornbaker  could  not  speak.  He  was  choked 
with  a  throng  of  emotions.  He  sat  on  the  bedside. 
Suddenly  he  got  up  and  walked  the  floor.  Yes,  he 
was  an  old  man  now.  He  had  always  made  a  living 
for  himself  and  his  family,  and  looked  down  on  the 
deadbeats  that  lived  off  charity.  But  he  was  one  of 
them  himself  now.  A  vague  uneasiness  came  over 
him,  a  feeling  that  he  had  not  done  right  by  Laura  in 


THAT  ABOUT  LAURA  HORNBAKER  303 

some  way.  He  looked  at  her  and  saw  how  thoughtful 
she  had  suddenly  become,  how  little  jubilant  over 
the  success  of  her  efforts. 

"  I  expect  we  better  let  Laura  rest,  mother.  She's 
pretty  well  tuckered.  We  got  lots  of  time  to  talk 
this  thing  over." 

Laura  did  not  sleep.  She  lay  staring  at  the  ceiling. 
If  she  had  only  waited  then  she  needn't  have  sold 
herself.  Yes,  that  was  what  it  was,  just  as  George 
said,  regular  bargain  and  sale  to  the  highest  bidder. 
She  had  made  the  agreement  and  she  supposed  she 
would  have  to  keep  her  word.  And  yet 

She  recalled  the  performance  of  the  night  before. 
As  she  kneeled  at  his  feet  with  her  hair  let  down,  she 
had  thrilled  at  the  touch  of  his  hand;  she  had  waited 
to  hear  those  passionate  words,  "  I  love  you!  O  my 
God!  how  I  love  you!  "  but  Avery  had  himself  bet 
ter  in  hand,  and  all  the  people  were  looking.  And 
then  she  knew  how  her  heart  hungered  to  hear  them. 
If  she  could  only  see  him  to  talk  to  him;  to  tell  him 
how  she  had  always  loved  him,  but  he  had  not  asked 
her;  tell  him  about  the  mortgage  and  how  Mr. 
Moots  had  put  them  under  obligations —  Oh,  if  she 
could  only  back  out  of  it  now —  Collections  were 
better  now,  her  father  said,  and  it  might  be  so  that 
George  could —  Suppose  he  did  ask  her,  what  should 
she  say?  Her  face  burned  at  the  thought. 

All  that  day  she  was  hardly  herself.  Her  mother 


3o4  FOLKS    BACK    HOME 

said:  "  You  better  go  out  for  a  walk,  Laura.  You're 
not  looking  very  peart.  I'm  glad  to-night's  the  last 
of  this  staying  up  late  and  singing  so  much."  Laura 
said  "  Yes,"  but  she  wished  it  might  go  on  forever, 
if  only  for  the  chance  that  once  again  she  might 
hear  him  whisper,  "  I  love  you! " 

She  could  not  help  herself,  it  seemed  as  if  she  had 
to  walk  through  Center  Street  past  the  doctor's  of 
fice.  She  was  ashamed  that  she  should  show  she 
cared  so  much  for  a  man.  What  would  people  say 
if  they  knew?  What  would  Mr.  Moots  say?  And  poor 
little  Luella?  Even  now  she  was  calling  Laura  "  my 
new  mamma."  Rebellion  rose  in  her  heart.  She  didn't 
care!  She  couldn't  be  sacrificing  herself  to  other 
folks'  young  ones  when  she  might — she  turned 
around  quickly  to  see  if  anybody  had  overheard  her 
secret  imaginings. 

She  tried  not  to  seem  to  linger  as  she  looked  at 
the  gold  letters  on  the  black  sign.  It  seemed  to  her 
that  Avery  was  the  most  beautiful  name  in  the  whole 
world.  She  tried  to  herself  how  "  Mrs.  Laura  Avery  " 
would  sound.  Then  she  tried  "  Mrs.  Laura  Moots." 
Brrrr! 

Eternity  ended  at  last,  and  once  more  the  time 
was  evening;  the  place,  Melodeon  Hall.  Once  more 
the  piano  jingled  on  the  yon  side  of  the  canvas  wall, 
which  presently  rose  and  disclosed  the  line  of  fire 
and  the  misty  faces  beyond  it.  Once  more  Haman 


THAT  ABOUT  LAURA  HORNBAKER  305 

strutted  along  with  his  retainers  and  hated  Mordecai 
sitting  in  the  gate.  Once  more  the  Jews,  blinking  in 
the  bright  light,  bewailed  Israel's  low  estate.  Once 
again  she  kneeled  at  Mordecai 's  feet,  and  he  stroked 
her  hair  and  bade  her  go  unto  the  king  and  make 
supplication  for  her  people,  defying  all  convention 
alities.  Once  again  she  protested  the  danger,  and 
still  Mordecai  insisted  that  it  was  her  duty.  The  lines, 
"  I'll  go  unto  the  king,  though  not  according  to  the 
law,  and  if  I  perish,  I  perish/'  took  on  a  new  signifi 
cance,  personal,  present. 

Between  the  acts  the  little  stage  hummed  like  a 
hive  with  the  laughter  of  the  ancient  Jews  and  Per 
sians.  Abel  Horn  was  declaiming  against  the  injus 
tice  of  Charley  Pope,  Josh  Riddle,  the  stage  man 
ager,  was  bossing  the  job  of  moving  the  throne,  all 
the  boys  and  girls  rattling  away  for  the  bare  life.  In 
this  Babel,  Laura  and  George  suddenly  met  face  to 
face.  It  was  as  if  a  solitude  surrounded  them.  He 
gazed  at  her  fixedly.  She  opened  her  mouth  to 
speak.  The  words  stuck  in  her  throat  till  she  drove 
them  out.  She  must  tell  him. 

"  George,"  she  said  and  stopped,  scared  at  herself. 
What  if  he  should  not  extend  to  her  the  golden 
scepter?  He  took  both  her  hands  in  his. 

"  It  was  true,  what  you  said  I  was " 

"  O  my  darling,  I  was  crazy — I — I — but  I  did 
love  you  so,  I  do  love  you  so! " 


3o6  FOLKS    BACK    HOME 

She  drew  in  a  long,  quivering  breath.  "  I  want  to 
say,"  she  persisted  as  if  it  were  a  task  she  had 
set  herself,  "  I  want  to  say  that — it  sounds  so  bold, 
but  I  must  say  it.  '  If  I  perish,  I  perish/  "  she  quoted 
with  a  little  smile.  "  It  wasn't  because  I  didn't — 
didn't  like  you.  I  always — but  we  were  so  worried 
about  the  house,  and — Mr.  Moots  bought  the  mort 
gage,  but  we've  got  the  pension  now,  and  if  you'll 

forgive  me " 

"O  Laura!" 

"  Wait."  She  eluded  the  arm  that  sought  to  em 
brace  her.  "  And  you  never  asked  me " 

"  I  ask  you  now.  Will  you  marry  me?  " 
She  inclined  her  head.  "  Don't,  George,"  she  whis 
pered  the  second  after.  "  They'll  see  you."  Much  he 
cared. 

"  When  shall  it  be?  To-night?  " 
"  Oh,  no,  oh,  no!  I  couldn't  get  ready." 
"Just  excuse  me  for  a  moment."  With  masculine 
masterfulness,  he  left  her  and  whispered  to  an  an 
cient  Persian:  "  Billy!  Jump  into  your  street  clothes 
and  run  over  to  Tom  Moran's,  the  county  clerk,  and 
get  a  marriage  license.  Who  for?  For  me  and  Miss 
Hornbaker.  I'm  twenty-eight  and  she's  twenty-four. 
Here's  a  dollar.  And  say.  See  if  Elder  Brown's  at 
home.  Keep  still  about  it.  Skip  now.  O  Laura!  you 
make  me  the  happiest  man  on  earth." 

"All  down  for  the  third  act!"  cried  Josh  Riddle, 


THAT  ABOUT  LAURA  HORNBAKER  307 
and  they  could  only  clasp  hands  and  murmur,  "  After 
the  show." 

Billy  Reinhart  meant  to  keep  still  as  he  was  bid, 
and  he  only  told  one  man  in  the  strictest  confidence, 
but  presently  the  whole  company  buzzed  with  the 
news  except  two.  Moots  for  obvious  reasons  was  not 
told,  and  Abel  Horn  was  notorious  for  not  keeping 
a  secret.  The  others  hushed  when  he  came  near,  but 
he  finally  cornered  one  man  and  said:  "  Look  here, 
there's  a  hen  on.  What  is  it?  Something  about  Doc 
Avery  and  Laura  Hornbaker,  isn't  it?  Coin'  to  run 
off  and  get  married,  ain't  they?  Gosh!  Won't  that 
s'prise  old  Moots!  Where  to?  Canton,  eh?"  Any 
kind  of  a  yarn  would  do  to  tell  Abel.  "  On  the  ten- 
thirty.  Well,  how's  that?  Sa-ay!  Won't  old  Moots 
be  crazy?  Oh,  sure  not.  Oh,  I  wouldn't  let  on  for  the 
world.  Ain't  it  great,  though! " 

Everybody  said  it  was  the  greatest  possible  mis 
take  to  let  Abel  Horn  get  even  a  hint  of  it.  The 
secret  gnawed  him  like  a  consuming  fire.  He  could 
not  keep  away  from  Moots,  who  had  begun  to  no 
tice  that  people  were  either  watching  him  closely  or 
conspicuously  avoiding  him.  What  was  this  grin 
ning  ape  of  an  Abel  Horn  tagging  him  about 
for?  What  was  up?  Where  was  Laura?  Where  was 
Doc 

"  Oh,  they've  skipped,  they've  skipped !  "  crowed 
Abel  Horn,  who  could  not  hold  in  any  longer,  being 


3o8  FOLKS    BACK    HOME 

a  small  cup  and  soon  filled.  "They  flew  the  coop! 
Off  for  Canton  on  the  ten-thirty!  Tra-la-loo!" 
and  he  waggled  his  hand  as  if  "  shaking  a  day- 
clay." 

After  him  buying  that  mortgage  for  her  sake!  He 
had  ten  minutes  to  get  to  the  B.  &  I.  depot.  He 
might  catch  the  fugitives  yet.  As  he  clattered  down 
the  back  stairs  to  the  men's  dressing  room  for  his 
street  clothes  only  to  find  the  door  locked,  Billy 
Reinhart,  who  was  on  the  lookout,  whispered, 
"  Chur-roo!  Here  he  comes!  " 

They  fled  down  the  front  stair.  There  was  Char 
ley  Wells'  coupe  across  the  road.  Why  wait  till  after 
the  show? 

"To  Elder  Drown's!"  commanded  George. 
"Drive  like  hell!" 

Queen  Esther  never  blanched  at  the  bad  word.  As 
they  rattled  up  Columbus  Street  to  the  minister's, 
Amzi  Moots  was  holding  up  his  yellow  skirts  and 
making  for  the  ten-thirty  as  hard  as  he  could  pelt. 

Over  and  over  again  Charley  Pope  played  the 
curtain  cue  of  the  fifth  act  and  wondered  what  was 
the  matter.  The  audience  began  to  stamp.  Josh  Rid 
dle  appeared  before  the  curtain  and  in  the  sudden 
hush  was  heard  with  painful  distinctness.  "  Ladies 
and  gentlemen,"  he  said,  "  owing  to  an — to  an — 
Aw,  be  still,  can't  you?  It  ain't  either  an  accident," 


THAT  ABOUT  LAURA  HORNBAKER  309 

he  muttered  to  some  one  behind  the  curtain  trying 
to  prompt  him,  Abel  Horn,  of  course,  "  owing  to 
an " 

"  Ufforshnit  cong-tong!  "  shouted  Hannigan  from 
the  fourth  row  back.  "  Ufforshnit  cong-tong.  Ai' 
that  it?  Huh?  Thass  whash  mean,  ain'  it?  Huh?" 

"Oh,  dry  up!"  the  people  next  him  said.  "We 
want  to  hear." 

"  Ufforshnit  cong-tong,  ain't  it,  Josh?  I  leave  it 
to  you,  Josh.  Ain'  it? "  half  rising  from  his  seat. 
"Huh?  Eh,  Josh?  Say!  sa-ay!  Them  clothes  o' 
yourn " 

"Down  in  front!  Down  in  front!  Shish!"  came 
from  all  parts  of  the  hall,  and  Professor  Minetti  took 
hold  of  the  coat  tails  of  the  gifted  Hannigan  and 
pulled  him  down. 

"  Well,  I  don't  know,  Mr.  Hannigan,  whether  it's 
that  there  whatyoumaycallum  or  not,"  laughed  Josh. 
(Nothing  ever  feazed  that  man.  Poor  fellow!  He's 
dead  now.)  "  But  it  ain't  exactly  unfortunate.  Ladies 
and  gentlemen,  we  shall  be  obliged  to  ask  your  kind 
indulgence  for  the  last  act  of  the  cantata,  and  Pro 
fessor  Pope  will  kindly  omit  the  solo  numbers  of 
Mordecai  and  Esther,  for  the  reason,  ladies  and  gen 
tlemen — for  the  reason — get  out  of  the  way,  Abel  " 
— he  was  arranging  the  curtain  for  a  quick  exit — 
"that  they  have  RUN  AWAY  TO  GET  MAR 
RIED!  Let  her  go,  professor."  He  bowed  himself 


3io  FOLKS    BACK    HOME 

off  in  a  storm  of  applause  that  drowned  Charley 
Pope's  loudest  tinkle  on  the  old  piano. 

"  Ufforshnit  cong-tong,  jis'  same,"  suspired  Han- 
nigan,  his  chin  sunk  in  his  shirt  front. 

Just  as  Elder  Drown  shut  the  book  and  leaned 
over  to  kiss  the  bride,  a  wild  hooting  arose  from 
outside.  Through  the  window  they  beheld  Constable 
Halloran  struggling  with  something  in  a  yellow  robe 
and  a  tall  peaked  hat  that  clung  to  the  elder's  gate 
post.  A  mob  of  boys  from  across  the  tracks  squealed 
like  a  hog-killing,  but  through  it  all  could  be  heard 
Constable  Halloran's  bellow:  "  Ye'll  do  nahthing  of 
the  kind.  Ye'll  go  wit'  me  paceably  to  the  callyboose 
or  I'll  break  the  face  of  ye,  ye  yallow  lunatic!" 

George  laughed  gleefully,  but  Mrs.  Avery — Mrs. 
Avery  sighed  and  said:  "Poor  little  Luella!" 
George  looked  at  her  as  if  he  did  not  understand. 


STARS   IN   HIS   CROWN 

WE  had  put  down  our  name  for  Elder  Brey- 
fogle  and  his  wife  as  our  guests  for  the 
annual  conference,  and  right  glad  we 
were  when  the  'bus  drove  up  in  front  of  the  door 
and  the  elder  got  out  in  his  linen  duster,  his  thick 
stogy  boots,  wrinkled  around  the  ankles,  up  which 
his  trousers  made  undiscouraged  efforts  to  climb, 
his  rusty  "  plug  "  hat,  and  his  Brussels  carpet  grip 
sack,  bloated  with  clean  shirts  and  collars  and  things. 
He  wouldn't  hear  to  my  paying  Charley  Wells 
for  bringing  him  up,  but  laboriously  unstrapped  a 
leather  pocketbook,  clicking  his  porcelain  "  store 
teeth  "  together  while  his  horny  forefinger  chased 
a  smooth  quarter  into  a  corner  whence  it  could  flee 
no  farther.  That  pocketbook!  Never  very  plethoric, 
it  was  sure  to  go  back  home  after  conference  re 
duced  to  incredible  limpness  by  appeals  for  foreign 
and  home  missions,  church  extension,  Freedmen's 
Aid  Society,  brethren  in  distress,  and  all  the  heart- 
stirring  and  heartrending  pleas  poured  upon  the  fa 
vored  that  sit  "  within  the  pale  of  the  conference." 
"  No.  Sister  Breyfogle  felt  as  if  she  wouldn't  be 

3" 


3i2  FOLKS    BACK    HOME 

able  to  attend  this  conference,"  he  sighed,  as  I  took 
the  gripsack  from  his  hand  and  we  went  up  the  front 
walk  and  into  the  house.  "  No.  She  ain't  sick  jest 
now,  although  she  has  be'n  porely  all  this  last  win 
ter  and  part  of  the  spring.  The  plumb  facts  of  the 
matter  is,  Brother  Billy,  it  has  be'n  borne  in  on  me 
that  I  had  orta  take  the  superannuated  relation,  and 
while  I'm  resigned  to  the  Lord's  will,  I  d'  know  she 
is.  Not  that  she's  any  ways  rebellious,  but  I  kind 
o'  sispicion  she  thinks  I'm  tollable  young  to  be 
givin'  up  the  active  exercise  of  my  ministry,  espe 
cially  as  they  are  others  older'n  me  still  a-continuin' 
on.  And  furthermore — m-well,  I  says  to  her,  '  Moth 
er/  I  says,  '  it  seems  to  me  you  be'n  a  Methodist 
minister's  wife  long  enough,'  I  says  to  her,  '  to  not 
expect  riches.  We  have  always  got  along/  I  told  her, 
'  by  the  Lord's  help,  and  I  have  faith  to  believe  His 
arm  ain't  shortened  the  least  little  mite/  I  says  to 
her.  '  Well/  siss  she,  '  Jeremiah/  siss  she,  '  I  think 
I'll  stay  at  home  and  pray  over  it/  siss  she.  '  I  don't 
believe  but  what  I  could  kind  of  bear  up  under  it 
better.  It  was  under  your  preachin'  in  Hanks's 
schoolhouse/  siss  she,  '  that  I  first  made  up  my  mind 
to  give  my  heart  to  God  and  my  hand  to  the  church, 
and  your  sermons  have  be'n  a  means  of  grace  to  me 
all  these  years/  she  says,  '  an'  it  jest  seems  to  me  I 
can't  stand  it  to  think  o'  you  a  not  preachin'  any 
more,  but  jest  only  exhortin'/  and  with  that  she 


STARS  IN  HIS  CROWN  313 

began  to  cry,  and  I —  Well,  how  air  ye  all,  any 
how?  "  he  broke  off,  with  well-feigned  cheerfulness. 

"  Sister  Jackson,  you're  renewing  your  youth  like 
the  eagle.  Laws,  nol  This  ain't  Jinny?  W'y  the  last 
time  I  seen  you,  you  wa'n't  knee-high  to  a  duck,  and 
here  you  air  a  great  big  lady.  Got  'ny  beaux  yet? 
Well,  'twon't  be  a  great  while  now  before  yer  maw 
and  yer  paw  will  be  a-complainin'  about  you  burnin' 
so  much  coal  oil,  the  fellows  is  settin'  up  with  you 
so  constant." 

He  laughed  so  loud  at  his  own  joke  that  his  up 
per  set  fell  down,  and  "  Jinny  " — she  is  trying  to 
get  herself  called  "  Virgie  "  now  that  she  is  sixteen, 
and  we  think  sweet  sixteen  at  that — went  as  red  as 
the  peonies  out  in  the  front  yard. 

"  When  she  gets  married,  elder,"  her  mother  put 
in,  "  we'll  have  you  to  perform  the  ceremony." 

"  So  do,"  said  he,  "  so  do.  The  fee'll  come  in 
mighty  handy  to  a  superannuated.  Only  don't  be  too 
long  about  it,  'r  else  you'll  have  to  get  somebody 
else.  And  look  here,  Jinny,  don't  you  go  to  gittin' 
too  stylish  and  have  somebody  to  '  assist,'  because 
that  means  splittin'  the  fee.  Say  " — he  interrupted 
himself — "  who  d'you  s'pose  I  married  last  Wednes 
day  evening?  " 

"  Anybody  we  know?  " 

"W'y,  of  course,  er  I  wouldn't  'a'  ast  you.  Nup. 
Not  Em  Shaw.  Em's  never  goin'  to  git  'nybody.  Too 


3i4  FOLKS   BACK   HOME 

fond  of  saying  smart  things  and  too  curless  o' 
whuther  they  hurt  or  not.  Well,  I'll  tell  you.  Twas 
Emmeline  Shelby.  She  got  a  fellow  by  the  name  of 
Pearson.  Not  the  Pearsons  you  know  over  by  Sun- 
bury,  but  Connecticut  folks.  His  mother  and  sisters 
live  with  him  and  I  jest  tell  you  they're  the  salt  of 
the  earth.  Oh,  she's  doin'  well  to  git  him.  He's  the 
superintendent  of  the  trolley  line.  W'y,  ye-es,  bless 
your  heart,  we  got  a  trolley  line,  too;  they're  as 
thick  as  fleas  on  a  dog  now.  He  gets  good  pay,  and 
her  pa  deeded  her  a  house  and  lot  up  on  Fountain 
Avenue,  all  fixed  up's  fine's  a  fiddle.  She's  got  every 
thing  that  heart  could  wish,  excepting — children." 
The  old  man's  eyes  twinkled,  and  he  tugged  at  his 
long,  square-cut  beard,  shaved  away  from  his  ex 
pressive  mouth  to  give  it  room  according  to  its 
strength.  He  made  a  grimace  toward  Virgie,  who 
pretended  not  to  notice  his  last  sentence. 

"  Emmeline's  a  right  good  girl,  though  she's 
never  pressed  forward  for  the  blessing  of  perfect 
love,  like  I  expected  she  would.  But  in  the  prayer 
I  offered  after  I  had  made  her  Mrs.  Pearson,  I  asked 
the  good  Lord  to  make  her  the  means  of  grace  to 
her  husband  that  she  had  be'n  to  her  father. 

"  Well,  sir,  it  jest  about  filled  my  cup  to  over 
flowing  when  I  come  to  that  part  where  it  says: 
'  Who  giveth  this  woman  to  be  married  to  this 
man? '  to  see  Brother  Shelby  step  up  and  say,  '  I  do,' 


STARS  IN  HIS  CROWN  315 

a-lookin'  so  prosperous  and  jest  as  proud's  a  body 
kin  righteously  be  of  bavin'  sech  a  daughter.  I  felt 
so  happy  I  come  purty  nigh  shoutin',  only  you  know, 
it  was  the  Episcopal  service  and  that  don't  make  any 
allowance  fer  shoutin'. 

"  '  Well,'  I  says  to  him  when  we  set  down  to  sup 
per — and  I  want  to  say  right  here  that  Sister  Brey- 
fogle  and  me  have  be'n  to  a  good  many  weddin's 
in  the  course  of  our  earthly  pilgrimage,  but  I  do' 
know's  we  ever  set  down  to  a  more  bountiful  repast. 
Laws,  Brother  Billy,  if  I  could  'a'  had  some  o'  that 
good  eatin'  when  I  was  a-tryin'  to  get  my  growth, 
I  don't  believe  but  what  I'd  be  a  bigger  man  than 
what  I  am —  Well,  I  was  a-goin'  to  tell  you.  I  says 
to  him,  *  Brother  Shelby/  I  says,  '  if  that  girl  hain't 
be'n  the  Lord's  angel  to  you,'  I  says,  '  from  the  very 
day  she  was  born,'  I  says,  l  and  you  cross  and  dis 
appointed  because  she  wasn't  a  boy,'  I  says,  '  then 
there  never  was  any  angels  and  I  dassent  deny 
them,'  I  says,  '  because  we  got  Scripture  for  them,' 
I  says. 

"  Look  like  to  me  it  wa'n't  more'n  a  week  sence 
I  saw  her  standin'  up  on  the  seat  a-holdin'  onto  his 
forefinger  while  he  give  in  his  first  experience,  that 
is,  as  fur's  he'd  got,  and  ast  us  all  to  pray  for  him 
that  he  might  ever  prove  faithful.  It  was  tollable 
airly  fer  revivals,  summers  along  about  Thanksgiv 
ing  time  it  was,  but  his  experience  started  one  of 


316  FOLKS    BACK    HOME 

the  most  powerful  p'tracted  meetings  I  most  ever 
went  through.  We  had  a  gracious  outpouring  of  the 
spirit,  and  many  precious  souls  were  gathered  in. 

"  Brother  Shelby  is  as  good  as  wheat  now  and  a 
saved  man.  The  Lord  has  prospered  his  goings  out 
and  his  comings  in,  but  they  was  a  time  when  he 
was  regular  right  down  in  the  gutter,  but  the 
Lord  snatched  him  out  of  it — took  and  drug  him 
out,  as  you  might  say.  He  takes  His  own  way — 
praise  His  name!  but  He  gits  there.  The  promise 
is:  'And  a  little  child  shall  lead  them/  and  it's  so, 
too. 

"  I  married  him  and  Huldy  Kenyon,  and  I  tell  you 
I  was  mighty  juberous  about  whether  I  had  orta  do 
it  or  not.  The  words  kep'  a-comin'  into  my  head: 
'  Whom  God  hath  joined  together — whom  God  hath 
joined  together — '  (  Lord/  I  says,  '  air  you  a-joinin' 
them  together  er  is  it  Huldy  Kenyon's  plegged  stub 
bornness?  ' 

"  She  was  an  awful  pretty  girl,  and  a  good  girl, 
too,  and  could  'a'  had  the  pick  o'  the  whole  Lewis- 
ton  circuit  fer  a  good  man,  and  who  should  she  take 
up  with  but  Ed  Shelby?  A  wild,  harum-scarum, 
drinkin',  dancin',  card-playin'  sort  of  a  feller,  smart 
as  tacks,  but,  dear  me,  how  wild!  She  could  V  had 
Henny  Simmons  as  well  as  not,  and  he  had  a  splen 
did  farm,  all  in  his  own  right,  and  would  V  pro 
vided  well  fer  her,  but  no,  she  was  jest  plumb  dis- 


STARS    IN    HIS   CROWN  31? 

tracted  after  Ed  Shelby.  Have  him  she  would,  and 
have  him  she  did. 

"  I  says  to  her  one  time,  '  Sister  Huldy/  I  says, 
*  do  you  feel  called  of  the  Lord  to  be  yoked  un 
equally  with  this  unbeliever? '  I  says. 

*  He  ain't  an  unbeliever,'  siss  she,  spunkin'  right 
up.  That's  the  way  with  these  black-haired  girls. 
Flare  up  like  tow.  Talk  about  the  red  heads.  They're 
meek  as  Moses,  'longside  o'  the  black  heads.  I  mar- 
rid  a  red  head  myself,  and  I  orta  know. 

"  '  He  ain't  an  unbeliever,'  she  says.  '  He  don't 
come  to  church  now,  but  he  says  he  will  when  we 
get  married.' 

"'Well,  Huldy,'  I  says  as  ca'm  as  I  could,  '  if 
he  don't  come  now  when  he's  still  a-courtin'  and 
ain't  shore  o'  gittin'  you,  do  you  s'pose  he  will  when 
they  ain't  no  doubts  about  it?  ' 

"  She  set  her  lips  and  tossed  her  head.  '  He'll 
come,'  siss  she,  and  though  I'm  not  a  prophet  or 
the  son  of  a  prophet,  I  could  look  ahead  and  see 
trouble  and  heartbreak  fer  her  and  contentions  and 
strife  fer  him. 

'  Well,'  I  says,  '  I  s'pose  you  know  he's  a  drinkin' 
man,'  I  says,  (  and  you  know  what  that  means.' 

'  He  drinks  some/  she  owned  up,  gittin'  as  red 
as  fire. 

'Some!'  I  says,  and  I  tell  you  my  heart  bled 
fer  her.  '  Some!  It's  more'n  some.  He  runs  with  them 


3i8  FOLKS    BACK    HOME 

Allen  boys  and  cuts  up  and  carries  on  scandalous. 
Unless  he  turns  to  the  Lord  right  quick/  I  says, 
'  they  are  a  heap  o'  trouble  ahead  o'  him  and  you.' 

" '  Well/  siss  she,  '  I'm  a-goin*  to  marry  him,  if 
he'll  have  me/  she  says,  as  pert  as  you  please.  '  I'm 
a-goin'  to  marry  him  to  reform  him.'  In  them  days 
that  wasn't  sech  an  old  saying  as  it  is  now,  but  I 
had  seen  sech  a  plenty  of  it  that  I  jest  got  heart 
sick  fer  the  pore  girl.  *  Well,  Lord  help! '  I  says,  and 
hushed  right  up. 

"  I  thought  over  it  and  thought  over  it,  and, 
somehow,  it  was  borne  in  on  me  that  the  Lord  was 
goin'  to  join  them  together,  if  not  by  my  hand,  by 
some  other's,  and — m'well,  I  needed  the  fee  right 
bad  then  anyhow.  I  disremember  what  it  was  that 
Sister  Breyfogle  wanted  with  it,  but  I  married  them 
and  made  them  the  subject  of  special  prayer. 

"  What  I  said  to  Huldy,  she  must  'a'  took  to  heart, 
for  Ed  come  to  meetin'  right  regular  before  they 
was  married,  but  it  turned  out  just  as  I  thought,  he 
kind  of  dropped  off  afterwards.  He  stayed  sober  as 
a  judge  fer  quite  a  spell.  Oh,  I  guess  it  must  'a'  be'n 
nine  or  ten  months  before  he  broke  out  ag'in.  I 
could  see  pride  stickin'  out  all  over  Huldy,  as  much 
as  to  say,  '  Didn't  I  tell  you  I  could  reform  him? ' 

"  I  knowed  it  would  be  only  a  question  of  time, 
and,  sure  enough,  when  the  bust-up  did  come,  it 
was  a  terrible  one.  Horse  run  away  with  him,  little 


STARS    IN    HIS   CROWN 

bay  mare  she  was,  could  go  like  the  wind  and  nerv 
ous  as  a  witch.  Throwed  him  out  about  half  a  mile 
below  Mumma's  place.  Broke  his  leg,  he  did.  I  hap 
pened  along  providentially  and  took  him  home  in 
my  buggy.  I  didn't  want  any  of  the  neighbors  to 
know  about  it,  so  I  jest  packed  him  into  the  house 
on  my  back.  Pore  Huldy,  she  was  so't  she  couldn't 
do  anything.  I  could  lift  a  big  man  like  him  in  them 
days,  but  I'm  afraid  it  would  be  a  little  too  much 
fer  me  now  that  I'm  a-going  to  take  the  superan 
nuated  relation.  The  grasshopper  is  shore  enough  a 
burden  now,  jest  like  Scripture  says. 

"  Poor  Huldy  cried,  and  took  on  terrible  when  she 
first  see  him,  but  she  held  herself  in  as  soon  as  she 
smelled  the  liquor  on  his  breath.  She  didn't  want 
me  to  see  that  she  was  conquered.  Oh,  she  was 
plucky!  So  I  went  for  the  doctor  as  soon  as  I  could 
and  then  hunted  up  the  little  bay  mare  and  what 
was  left  of  Ed's  buggy. 

"  He  was  laid  up  fer  six  weeks  right  in  the  middle 
of  harvest,  and  had  a  big  doctor  bill  and  all.  He  was 
mighty  penitent,  and  Huldy  pitied  him  so  much 
that  she  felt  like  stickin'  up  fer  him  more'n  ever.  I 
do'  know  as  I  blamed  her  much  fer  that.  Little  while 
after  that,  Emmeline  was  born,  and  I  got  right  pro 
voked  at  the  man,  the  way  he  acted.  You  see,  he 
wanted  a  boy  the  worst  way,  and  went  to  town  and 
got  tight  because  it  was  a  girl. 


320  FOLKS    BACK    HOME 

"  That  annual  conference,  I  was  appointed  to  the 
Minuca  Center  charge,  and  I  kind  of  lost  sight  of 
Ed  and  his  wife,  but  I  heard  of  them  often.  His 
farm  got  to  runnin'  down,  as  you  might  suppose, 
and  on  top  of  it  all  he  had  to  get  into  a  scrape  when 
he  was  drunk,  that  cost  him  a  pile  of  money  to  set 
tle  up.  I  don't  know  exactly  what  it  was,  but  I  know 
that  he  had  to  put  a  mortgage  on  his  farm  to  pay 
it.  But  that  didn't  scare  him,  and  he  kep'  on  till 
finally  he  didn't  come  up  with  the  interest,  and  then 
things  began  to  look  right  doleful  for  Huldy. 
Course,  she  would  never  have  admitted  that  she  was 
sorry  that  she  married  Ed,  p'ticularly  as  it  was 
Henny  Simmons  that  held  the  mortgage;  but  it  kind 
o'  looked  to  me  as  if  the  thought  had  poked  its 
head  in  the  door  of  her  mind,  as  you  might  say,  and 
that  although  she  had  ordered  it  out,  it  still  kep' 
on  hangin'  around  and  peekin'  in  at  the  winder. 

"  I  was  three  years  at  Minuca  Center.  You  know 
that  was  before  they  let  us  stay  five  years  in  one 
appointment.  The  breaking  up  of  the  itineracy.  Yes, 
sir,  the  breaking  up  of  the  itineracy.  Well,  I  was 
made  presiding  elder  of  the  Minuca  Center  district, 
and  I  tell  you  it  jest  about  give  me  the  all-overs 
when  I  saw  Ed  Shelby  again,  all  so  bloated  up  and 
his  face  as  red  as  a  comet.  Tchk!  I  tried  to  talk  to 
him,  but  though  he  was  civil  and  all  that,  I  could 
see  that  it  was  jest  like  pouring  water  on  a  duck's 


STARS    IN    HIS   CROWN  321 

back  fer  all  the  good  it  done  him.  Huldy,  she  held 
her  head  up  as  well  as  she  could,  but  she  stayed 
away  from  meeting,  and  I  surmised  it  was  because 
she  didn't  have  clothes  fit  fer  her  and  little  Emme- 
line.  Sweet  little  young  one,  she  was,  and  if  ever 
they  was  a  child  jest  naturally  marked  with  love  fer 
her  pa,  that  child  was.  Seemed  like  she  was  all 
wrapped  up  in  him,  and  he  in  her,  too,  fer  all  he 
was  disappointed  because  she  wasn't  a  boy.  She  was 
the  very  spit  an*  image  of  him  and  that's  a  com 
pliment  they  ain't  nobody  can  stand.  They  got  to 
give  in  to  that.  A  body'd  think  the  sight  o*  her 
would  'a'  kep'  him  away  from  whisky  if  anything 
could,  but  what  Ed  Shelby  needed  was  saving  grace, 
and  plenty  of  it.  It's  to  be  had,  bless  God! 

"  First  good  chance  I  got,  I  drove  out  to  the 
Shelbys'.  Huldy  was  right  smiley  and  churful,  but 
her  eyes  was  red,  and  it  looked  to  me  as  if  she  was 
a-tryin'  to  carry  it  off  bold  and  peart.  But  I  looked 
her  plumb  in  the  eye  an'  I  says:  '  Huldy  Shelby/ 
I  says,  'you're  in  deep  trouble.  What  is  it?  What's 
Ed  been  a-doin'  now?  I  want  you  should  tell  me! ' 
'  W'y,  elder/  siss  she,  with  a  nice,  easy  laugh,  '  noth- 
in'  p'tic'lar.  What  makes  you  run  on  Ed  that  away? 
They  hain't  a  better  man  in  Logan  County  than  Ed 
Shelby,  when — '  She  caught  herself  jist  in  time. 
'  Now,  look  here,  Huldy  Shelby/  I  says,  '  I  don't 
want  you  to  think  I'm  a-runnin'  on  Ed,  because  I 


322  FOLKS    BACK    HOME 

ain't/  I  says.  l  They's  the  makin's  of  a  good  man  in 
him.  I  feel  the  burden  of  souls  with  regard  to  him/ 
I  says,  '  and  I  know  and  you  know  that  he's  a-goin' 
to  perdition  as  fast  as  the  wheels  of  time  can  carry 
him.  I  know  you  love  him  so  that  you'd  ruther 
go  to  the  bad  place  with  him  than  be  up  in  heaven, 
you  and  Emmeline,  and  look  down  fer  all  eternity 
and  see  him  in  torment  without  one  drop  of  water 
to  cool  his  parched  tongue/  I  told  her.  '  I'm  re 
sponsible,  under  God,  fer  you  both/  I  says,  '  fer  I 
married  you.  What'll  I  say  when  the  Lord  asks 
me  what  I  done  with  them  two  precious  souls 
fer  whom  Christ  died?  I  want  you  to  tell  me  all 
about  it/ 

"  Well,  sir,  she  busted  right  out  a-cryin'.  I  let 
her  have  her  cry  out  and  when  she  had  kind  of 
ca'med  down  a  little  she  up  and  told  me  how  he'd 
be'n  a-drinkin'  so  steady  and  so  much  that  his  nerves 
was  all  unstrung,  and  he  couldn't  sleep  none  at  all, 
er  at  least,  none  to  speak  of,  and  his  appetite  was 
all  gone,  and  how  he  was  so  ashamed  of  himself  and 
the  way  he'd  be'n  a-actin'  and  so  sick  and  tired  of 
fallin'  so  many  times  and  him  a-tryin'  so  hard,  all 
in  his  own  stren'th  and  not  a-leanin'  on  Him  who 
is  mighty  to  save  to  the  uttermost — Praise  His 
name!  Oh,  glory  to  God  fer  full  salvation — and  how 
he'd  set  there  and  argue  with  her  by  the  hour  that 
it  was  his  duty  to  go  and  make  an  end  of  himself, 


STARS  IN  HIS  CROWN  323 

and  how  she  would  talk  to  him  and  try  to  persuade 
him  out  of  it,  and  to  try  once  more  to  reform  and 
call  upon  the  Lord  to  help  him,  and  how  if  he  was 
gone,  the  farm  was  sure  to  be  taken  away  from  them, 
and  then  what  would  become  of  her  and  little  Em- 
meline,  and  fer  him  not  to  talk  that  away  before 
other  people  er  they  would  think  strange  of  it,  and 
how  she  jist  couldn't  live  if  he  was  to  be  taken  away, 
and  how  pitiful  it  would  be  fer  little  Emmeline  to 
be  pointed  out  by  everybody:  '  That's  the  little  girl 
that  her  father  killed  himself/  and  how  bad  his  folks 
would  feel.  Oh,  I  don't  know  what  all  she  didn't  tell 
me.  She  jest  opened  her  heart  to  me,  and  I  know 
it  done  her  good  to  tell  it  to  somebody. 

"  Well,  I  see  right  plain  that  this  wa'n't  no  case 
fer  counsel  ner  advice.  It  called  fer  help  from  on 
high.  So  we  knelt  down  and  had  a  word  of  prayer. 
I  was  real  plain  spoken  with  the  Lord.  I  said  to  Him 
plump  and  plain:  '  Lord,  you've  just  got  to  do  some 
thing  fer  Ed  Shelby.  I  claim  the  promises  fer  him. 
Do  something.  I  don't  cur  what  it  is,  so  long  as 
it  brings  him  to  call  upon  Thee.'  Well,  sir,  we 
both  got  up  from  our  knees,  sure  I  know  that  He 
heard  us. 

"  Long  about  Thanksgiving  time — I  think  it  was 
the  Sunday  before.  Yes,  I  know  it  was  now — long 
about  Thanksgiving  time,  I  got  around  to  Lewis- 
ton  again  for  quarterly  meeting.  I  was  jest  getting 


324  FOLKS    BACK    HOME 

up  to  give  out  the  hymn,  when  who  should  walk 
in  but  Brother  and  Sister  Shelby,  a-leadin'  little 
Emmeline.  They  took  a  seat  away  up  forward,  and 
I  never  saw  Ed  Shelby  look  so  much  like  a  saved 
man  as  he  did  that  morning.  His  eye  was  clur,  and 
his  face  said  '  Salvation  '  in  every  line  of  it.  Huldy 
was  jist  a-beamin',  and  I  felt  sure,  if  I  never  did 
before,  that  there  was  a  prayer-hearing  and  a  prayer- 
answering  God.  Hallelujah!  I  noticed,  too,  that  he 
didn't  jist  bow  forward  on  the  seat,  come  prayer 
time.  Billy,  I  do  despise  that.  No,  sir,  he  got  down 
on  his  knees  with  his  face  to  the  back  of  the  seat 
he  was  in,  in  the  good,  old-fashioned  Methodist 
way,  like  a  man  should  that's  put  all  upon  the  altar. 
I  was  so  anxious  to  hear  all  about  it  that  I  could 
hardly  keep  in.  I  was  a-goin'  to  preach  a  doctrinal 
sermon  that  morning  against  the  Babtists,  showin' 
how  if  the  Israelites  was  babtized  to  Him  in  a  cloud, 
they  must  'a'  be'n  sprinkled,  fer  they  couldn't  'a' 
be'n  dipped,  that  is,  so's  to  get  'em  wet  all  over, 
but  I  jest  let  that  go  by  the  board  and  preached  on 
the  Prodigal  Son  and  how  there  is  more  joy  in 
heaven  over  one  sinner  that  repenteth  than  over 
the  ninety-and-nine  that  went  not  astray.  I  had  a 
message  from  the  Lord  that  morning,  and  I  deliv 
ered  it  straight  at  Ed  Shelby,  and  I  could  see  him 
a-gettin'  so  happy  he  didn't  know  what  to  do,  and 
not  havin'  much  experience  with  the  ways  of  meet- 


STARS    IN    HIS   CROWN  325 

inghouses,  he  didn't  know  any  better  than  to  holler 
'  Hooray! '  when  he  meant  '  Hallelujah! ' 

"  As  soon  as  I  got  through  with  the  sermon,  I 
wanted  to  hear  what  the  Lord  had  done  fer  his  soul, 
so  I  announced  that  there  would  be  a  sort  of  prelim 
inary  love  feast,  so  as  to  get  het  up  for  the  one  in 
the  afternoon.  Sister  Breyfogle  shook  her  head  at 
me,  fer  we  was  to  take  dinner  at  the  Curls'  and 
Sister  Curl  was  very  particular  about  having  din 
ner  on  time.  She  was  another  Martha,  curful  and 
troubled  about  many  things.  Gone  to  glory  now 
these  twenty  years,  and  I'll  bet  she's  the  neatest- 
looking  angel  there.  I  never  let  on  I  see  Sister  Brey 
fogle  shake  her  head  at  me.  I  went  right  ahead.  '  The 
dinner  may  get  cold/  I  says,  *  brethren  and  sisters, 
and  especially  sisters,  but  I  feel  that  the  Lord  is 
present  with  us,  and  that  to  bless,  and  He'll  warm 
our  hearts  so's  to  make  up  fer  the  cold  dinners,'  I 
says.  Old  Brother  Littell — he's  gone  to  his  rest,  too, 
but  do  you  mind  how  he  could  shout,  Billy?  He  let 
out  an  '  A-a-A-Amen ! '  that  you  could  hear  from 
here  to  the  courthouse,  and  Brother  Ed  Shelby 
stood  up  on  his  feet,  the  first  one,  all  of  a  trimble, 
as  I  could  see,  and  a-holdin'  onto  the  back  of  the 
seat  in  front  of  him.  Just  then  Brother  Darrow 
started  up,  '  Hn-I've  'listed  din  the  howly  mwar, 
battling  for  the  Lord!'  You  mind  how  he  used  to 
sing  through  his  nose — and  Ed  had  it  in  his  mind 


326  FOLKS    BACK    HOME 

to  set  down,  but  no,  sir,  he  stuck  it  out.  And  there 
stood  little  Emmeline  on  the  seat  beside  him,  hold 
ing  onto  his  forefinger  with  her  little  hand,  the  Lord 
bless  the  child! 

"  Well,  he  told  us  all  about  what  a  sinner  he  had 
be'n,  and  how  he  had  fooled  away  his  youth  and 
stren'th  and  brought  trouble  and  heaviness  on  his 
pore  old  mother  and  his  faithful  wife,  and  all  the 
time  he  was  talkin'  I  could  see  him  as  he  was  when 
he  was  an  innocent  boy,  so  clur-eyed  and  strong  and 
her  such  a  hearty  girl  that  orta  never  had  a  day's 
trouble  if  it  hadn't  of  be'n  fer  him,  and  looked  at 
them  both,  and  seen  how  whisky  had  brought  him 
low,  and  wore  her  to  a  shadow  of  her  former  self, 
and  I  says  to  myself,  '  If  the  devil  ain't  in  whisky, 
what  makes  it  do  so  much  harm? ' 

"  '  It  jest  come  to  that  pass/  says  Brother  Shelby, 
4  that  I  knowed  I  couldn't  get  shut  of  this  Rum 
Demon  by  my  own  stren'th,  and  I  didn't  think  they 
was  any  power  that  could  help  me.  I  jest  knowed  it 
would  be  one  trouble  after  another,  and  me  a-sinkin' 
lower  and  lower  and  a-draggin'  my  pore  wife  and 
innocent  child  after  me.  So  I  made  up  my  mind/ 
he  says,  '  that  I'd  end  it  all.  I'd  resk  an  eternity  of 
hell  fer  myself  if  only  my  wife  and  little  girl  could 
have  peace  and  comfort  here  on  earth  a  spell.  I  got 
down  my  razor  last  Wednesday  morning,  and  made 
out  I  was  goin'  to  shave  myself.  I  honed  it  and 


STARS   IN    HIS  CROWN  327 

honed  it,  till  I  got  it  as  sharp  as  I  could,  and  all 
the  time  I  was  thinkin'  how  this  was  the  last  time 
and  me  wantin'  to  say  good-by  to  them,  but  not 
dastin'  to  fer  fear  my  wife  would  sispicion  what  I 
was  up  to.  Finally/  says  he,  '  I  slipped  out  o'  the 
house  and  over  to  the  woods  back  of  the  barn.  I 
got  out  o'  sight  of  everybody ' 

"  '  Not  God's/  put  in  Brother  Darrow. 

" '  No,  sir/  says  Brother  Shelby,  and  sech  a 
clamor  of  hallelujahs  you  never  heard.  '  I  set  down 
on  a  log  to  cut  my  throat.  I  thought/  said  he,  '  of 
how  'twould  be  when  Huldy  missed  me,  and  begun 
to  holler  fer  me,  and  git  the  neighbors  to  search  fer 
me,  and  I  thought/  said  he,  '  of  them  a-findin'  me 
a-layin'  behind  that  log  on  them  wet  leaves,  all  in 
a  puddle  of  my  own  blood,  and  it  made  the  cold 
chills  come  over  me/  he  says.  But  it  seems  like  he 
was  determined  to  do  it. 

"  Then  he  went  on  to  tell  how  it  come  across  his 
mind  about  Abraham  a-sacrificin'  Isaac,  and  the  pic 
ture  about  it  in  the  big  pictorial  Bible  of  the  angel 
a-reachin'  down  his  hand  to  hold  back  Abraham's 
knife,  and  how  he  jest  thought,  '  Huh!  The  Lord 
won't  bother  His  head  enough  about  me  to  send 
no  angel/  and  drawed  his  razor  and  jest  as  it  nicked 
his  skin  he  felt  a  hand  holding  him  back,  and  he 
turned,  scared  like  and  half  expecting  to  see  the 
silver  feathers  of  an  angel's  wing. 


328  FOLKS   BACK   HOME 

"  '  It  was  little  Emmeline  here,'  he  says,  '  that  had 
follered  me  out  and  ast  me:  "  Pa,  whutch  you  goin' 
to  do?"  but  she  was  jest  as  truly  the  Almighty's 
messenger  as  if  she  had  come  right  straight  on  her 
ernt  from  the  Great  White  Throne.' ' 

The  elder  sat  silent  for  a  few  seconds  softly  pat 
ting  his  hands  together  with  such  a  look  on  his  face 
as  they  must  have  who  behold  the  Beatific  Vision 
of  the  King  in  His  glory.  Then  he  heaved  a  long 
sigh.  "  Yes,"  he  said,  at  length,  "  I'm  a-goin'  to  ap 
ply  for  the  superannuated  relation.  I'm  getting  along 
in  years  now,  and  they  want  younger  men  and  men 
that's  better  educated  than  what  I  am.  I've  borne 
the  burden  and  the  heat  of  the  day,  and  though  I 
have  been  an  unprofitable  servant,  I  have  gathered 
in  some  sheaves  for  the  Lord  of  the  Harvest  when 
He  comes.  ...  It  won't  be  long  now." 


THE    END 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 
BERKELEY 

Return  to  desk  from  which  borrowed. 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


280ctf50DA 


LD  21-100m-9,'48(B399sl6)476 


(S104381 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


